The ABCs of Russell and Timmy
by Paxella
Summary: A series of short Russell/Timmy pieces. Two men coming to terms with the feelings they suppress, and eventually succumbing to them.
1. A is for Awake

_A/N: This series takes us through the alphabet twice. The first time through is set randomly pre-marriage; the second time through takes place after the men are in an established relationship, post-marriage._

* * *

 **A is for Awake**

 _In the dark of the office I grab the last of my things; the end of a long work day. Alone, quiet, still. I'm restless tonight, as if I know what's coming. As if I've been waiting, anticipating the hour, the minute, the second it will happen._

 _I look to Mr. Dunbar's door; he's gone home hours ago, of course he has. He always has, and I'm left to take care of whatever scraps of business remain at the end of the work day, had I not been forced into accompanying the man to some bar seeking women of a particular ilk._

 _No, not tonight. Tonight I'm alone._

 _Yet there's a distinct presence in the dark of the office. A distinct heat...it wills me to stay, as if I know it's calling to me. Begging me to stay, imploring me._

 _Seducing me._

 _I walk slowly to the front of my desk; I turn a slow circle, seeking the heat, seeking the figure looming over me. I'm facing the desk now. My breath catches. Someone...is walking up behind me. Hearken, footsteps, shallow and soft and not at all menacing._

 _Seductive._

 _All at once, hard hands grab me from behind, someone's arms wrapping about my waist and pulling me against them. The embrace is taught and rough and not without a sense of passion, a drive, a heat, it builds throughout the both of us, connecting us as one._

 _My head lunges backwards, willing the other's head forward, against the nape of my neck. Come to me; come into me. I've lashed an arm back in an attempt to embrace the figure who has me so enraptured, gripping me ever tighter against a body bent on...destruction._

 _Carnal, destructive energy, yet the ultimate in creation, the ultimate united force. Otherworldly and intense, the most divine passion I have yet to experience on this sphere. A growl emanates within my ear and shivers down my spine, I am rendered senseless, I am rendered uncontrollably sensually comatose, I cannot fathom the depths of this sexual divination._

 _I must embrace the singular soul who has so awoken this feeling within me, I must, I must, dear heart, please release your grip upon me, let me look upon your face and taste the sweet nectar of your crimson lips!_

 _I spin within a loosening grasp and stare upon a face full of pure love and devotion. I see the face; I recognize the face; our lips embrace with a force beyond that of any kiss known to mankind, shattering into a million pieces, shattering into-_

Timmy awoke in a cold sweat; he yelped, thrusting a hand upon his mouth, eyes threatening to exit his skull if it would even dare chance erase the vision in his head.

His voice emerged then, a horrified squeal in the still of the night: "It was Russell..."


	2. B is for Boyfriend

**B is for Boyfriend**

"Please, allow me." Timmy slipped in most gracefully beside the young lady seated at the bar, hand sliding its way before hers. Ahh, paying for her drink...a sly move, indeed. Sure to win a few points with the fair-haired beauty who'd caught his eye this evening.

"Uhm..." She smiled his direction, but with a laugh in her eyes. Not the reaction he'd anticipated, not nearly. As a matter of fact, she appeared positively perplexed by the gesture.

"I'm sorry, have I...have I offended you somehow?"

"No, not at all, it's just...your boyfriend won't mind?"

Timmy labored to speak. "I...my...p-pardon?"

The woman was pointing. Timmy turned a slow, stiff circle to spot in the distance of the club an idiot of a man, standing with drink in hand, perusing the scene as though he were part of it; dancing an idiot's dance with uninterested women to music he didn't really like.

Timmy turned slowly back towards the woman with a long, defeated sigh. "No."

"Oh...I just meant...I'm sorry, I've seen you guys in here together before. A lot. Like, a lot a lot, and the way you guys act together, I just assumed..."

Timmy blinked heavily, searching his brain and the room for answers. "Th-the way we...wh-what do you-"

Another woman joined the scene then, coming up behind Timmy's prospect with a drunken giggle...an excited buzz pursued.

"Mandy! This guy just paid for my drink!"

The new woman gasped out a laugh, looking Timmy over. "Wait, this guy? But won't his-"

"They're not!"

"No way!"

Timmy gripped his head, which began to throb uncontrollably.

"Wait," shot in the bartender, leaning in towards the women. "They're not?"

Timmy shot his eyes towards the man, jaw gaping. "Really? Seriously?"

"Well, you pay for all his drinks."

"I'm his...! I'm not his...! Okay, you know what, never mind." Timmy offered the most courteous smile he could to the former object of his affections. "Do enjoy the drink, and if you're at all interested, I do ensure you that I'm not at all-"

"Hey, Tim..." Timmy flinched at the sound of Russell's voice. Hadn't he just been halfway across the club, dancing like a moron? Why was he here now, lurking just behind him? Some sort of morbid sixth sense bent on destroying every aspect of his existence? Yes. Yes, of course.

Timmy turned to Russell, feet rushing in an attempt to usher him away. "Sir, I think it best if we just-"

"This place is mega lame, you wanna get outta here? Go have ourselves a _good_ time?"

"Mm...w-well..."

"Catch a late dinner or something?" Russell tilted his head thoughtfully, voice lilting lightly. "Y'know, you've been working pretty hard. I've been riding you so much, lately..."

"Ohhh, please, sir, I implore you..." Timmy held his head in his hands as the three strangers at the bar looked on in bewilderment.

"And you know what, you really deserve it. I don't tell you this enough, but you've been doing a _great_ job, too, you really put your back into it."

Timmy spun sharply back towards the bar in desperation, attempting to laugh off the situation. "Now, I know how this looks, but there's been a...a quite ridiculous misunderstanding as it were, you see." He flipped back towards Russell. "Sir, if you would please explain to these lovely individuals the nature of our relationship?"

"Hey, man," the bartender countered casually. "I get it, it's cool. You've called him 'sir' enough times...I've seen plenty of subs and doms in my day, I don't judge."

Timmy's eyes closed down slowly; he heard the soft giggle of the women behind him.

And from Russell came a pathetic: "Wait, what...?" Timmy had snatched him by the arm and led him halfway across the club before Russell bothered speaking again, the situation having finally clicked within his brain. "Ohhh my god, they think you're gay?"

It wasn't until they were outside that Timmy chose to speak. "They think _we're_ gay. Another fine establishment we can no longer utilize."

Russell sighed out with a grumble as he followed Timmy down the sidewalk. "Damn it, why does that keep happening? You really throw off my game."


	3. C is for Cold

**C is for Cold**

Russell was leaving the bar empty handed this evening. The clock had struck midnight, the spell had worn off...no more magic for poor Cinderussell. He spun on his heels as the door flung shut, ensuring he wasn't alone. Not a chick, but the least he could do on nights like this was spot the poor sap cab fare home.

"Little speed in the step, Tim, haven't got all night."

No reply came from the other man; only a blank stare, devoid of emotion. Then, quite suddenly he turned the opposite direction, walking rapidly down the sidewalk. Away from Russell.

Aghast, Russell watched him go. What compelled him then to follow Timmy down a frosted sidewalk just past midnight on this chilled winter's eve was a wonder indeed, but his feet took him rapidly in this direction until they were walking side by side.

"Funny," Russell said with a laugh. "You, uh...you walked away from me."

"Quite deliberate, I assure you." Ever increasing his pace, Timmy worked to avoid looking upon the man who was working diligently to match his steps. Finally, he'd had enough, halting abruptly, finding Russell's feet stopping in time with his.

"Moving kinda fast there, Tim."

"Do you know what this is, sir? This is me..." Timmy gestured towards himself quite elaborately. "Trying to get away from you!" He flailed now towards Russell with clenched fists.

Russell took a step back. "Whoa! Aggressive..."

The pain that shot through Timmy's brain was enough to drive his still taught fists through Russell's face, but no, no, he could resist. He looked around slowly, finding a nearby bench; and he walked towards it, allowing the aggravation he held throughout each nerve to exit through a leg, kicking old snow off the damned thing. A brush of an arm cleared the rest and he sat, placing a hand to his head, resisting the urge to scream.

This. This was his life.

Russell heaved a sigh as the first signs of fresh snow began to fall, brushing the melting flakes into his hair. He looked to the street, eyes drifting to the string of yellow taxi cabs floating down an endless stretch of night.

Timmy found Russell sitting beside him a moment later; he resisted looking his direction. He resisted moving at all, pathetically, unflinching, ice crystals shining where each new flake landed against the blue of his sweater.

"Kinda late," Russell sighed out. "And you're a little underdressed."

"You gave a woman my coat."

"She looked cold."

Timmy's eye twitched ever so slightly in irritation; Russell couldn't be bothered to notice.

"C'mon, you really wanna sit here all night?"

"You chose to keep me out all night," Timmy replied most defeatedly. "As per usual."

"Ah, c'mon..."

"I sat in the corner all night. As per usual. While you sized up the prey...and they tore you limb from limb, and not the way you'd intended, mind you. As per-"

"Yeah, got it. Listen, we can't do this all night, what do you want from me, an apology?"

Timmy's eyes bore into Russell's. "Why was I here tonight, sir? What grand purpose have I served this evening, any evening, sitting in a corner, watching you defile the good times of random women while I observe your slow decent into lonely seniority...and I sit slowly sucking down my pride and enough alcohol to make me forget where I am?" With this, he turned his eyes away, staring into the distance. Into nothing, leaving Russell alone with the words.

There was a low rumble to the city. Atmospheric, an ever present hum surrounding a lone bench on this chilled winter's night. And yet, a silence now, a new chill, cold and bitter. Timmy had frozen the rest of the noise in time, a moment lost.

For two men prone to avoiding reality, the words had stun both speaker and receiver in their own ways. Russell took to glaring into Timmy with a new intensity...raw and fresh, focusing on the features of his face. A face trying to hold back emotions, ever stoic and strong, but breaking. He was breaking.

Russell saw snowflakes gently fall upon Timmy's cheek as his face turned down; he watched the crystals melt slow against the warmth of his skin, and his eyes clenched tight, as if trying not to cry.

He'd broken him.

"Timmy...hey...hey, Tim, I'm uh...I'm sor-"

"Just go." A statement meant to be strong from a voice that dared shake.

"Can we talk about this?"

Eyes opened, gazing back upon Russell. A connection.

"Go. Home. Russell."

An order.

Russell stood without another word, nodding, taking slow steps towards the street. And Timmy, despite his resistance, watched his every move; he watched him hail the cab. He watched him almost enter the damned thing before turning to face him again in hesitation.

Timmy turned his face down with an agitated sigh...and a shiver, rubbing his arms at the sign of a breeze. _Leave already,_ he implored silently. _Just leave, please._

An object fell to Timmy's side. He looked first to the offering upon the bench, then to Russell, already back at cabside, having dashed madly to the door to avoid further conversation. Their eyes met most briefly and Russell flashed the smallest of smiles before disappearing into the cab...into the night.

Timmy's hand fell to his side, atop Russell's jacket. Ridiculous. Utter fool, why would he-

Another breeze, and Timmy rubbed an arm, taking to his feet. He stared for some time at Russell's scrap of clothing upon the bench, sneering at it in a decidedly disgusted manner, forcing such an expression in an attempt to resist the warmth that had already begun inching through him the longer he looked at it; the longer he contemplated the gesture.

He reached towards the thing finally, fingertips embracing the fabric delicately...very...very slowly, inch by inch. And all at once, he grasped the jacket, looking all around him as if caught in the throes of something quite scandalous.

He placed his arms within the thing quickly, very quickly, finding it a bit ill-fitting but fine enough, eyes shifting around to ensure he wasn't being watched...and then, a surprising feeling...he eased. Comfortable, calm...secure.

Warm.

A phone vibrated within a cab, already a fair distance away. The knot in Russell's stomach unfurled upon seeing Timmy's name. This stupid cab was cold. He didn't care.

The text read: _Goodnight, sir._ , which Russell gratefully translated to _Apology accepted._


	4. D is for Drunk

**D is for Drunk**

Both of them, quite drunk.

After such a performance, it was only natural that they would celebrate their achievement; appreciative audience members were eager to buy them each a shot or two (or three).

Timmy had paced himself, as usual, but Russell...ah, yes, Russell, giddy with laughter already and not yet stopping with the liquid enhancement.

Timmy knew he was in for a long night.

When they had first sat down at the bar, all smiles and giggles, overwhelmed on the high of their impromptu duet so well-received, Russell had been the first to order drinks...something heavier than Timmy would have liked, but then he let it pass this time. Why not live a little?

It was only a few minutes later that reality had hit home for Timmy; the original target of his serenade came wandering up to him, and he, having practically forgotten his entire goal this evening, was surprised at how surprised he was to find her standing beside him.

"Oh! Oh, Katie, my goodness, did you...did you like-"

"Timmy, I had no idea!"

Timmy smiled, relieved that his message had come across loud and clear.

"But it's so obvious now. I mean, that was all pretty weird, I don't get why you wanted me to know so badly, but...I hope you and Russell will be very happy together." She offered Timmy a soft pat upon a leg before wandering away, leaving Timmy stunned speechless.

Before he could follow her, before he could be put out at all by the utter absurdity of what had just happened, Russell had plunked another drink before him.

"Chug-a-lug, my man!"

It just kept happening. Random strangers approached. "You make a cute couple." "How long have you been together?" "I didn't know you guys were dating."

"We're not!" Timmy refuted each time, feeling in great need of another swallow of alcohol, but no matter. The comments were mostly in jest, he was certain; this helped a little...

But Russell was apparently too drunk already to offer his rebuttals, much to Timmy's dismay.

Well, that was then, this was now. Both drunk, the bar far behind them, the men practically collapsed their way inside Russell's apartment.

Each tangle of leg, each trip over nothing caused a giggle and a "shh" from the two of them, as if they would wake whoever might chance hear them in the empty apartment.

"Let's get you to bed," Timmy offered.

Russell looked to Timmy with a raised brow. "Mmm...well, aren't you a tease? Take you up on that if I thought you meant it."

Timmy sighed out a bit. Oh, here we go...the same routine, every time he accompanied a drunken Mr. Dunbar home. Hit on as if he were a female companion. Lovely.

Tonight, however, was a touch different: tonight, Timmy was a touch inebriated in return.

"Never on a first date, sir." He shot a crooked smile. "What kind of a common whore do you take me for?"

Russell's jaw dropped solidly before he broke out in a cackle of a laugh. "What kind of-! Oh my god, dude. Oh, my god! Why don't you drink more?! You're hilarious!"

"Not that funny," Timmy shook his head. "Now. It's late, it's been lovely, but I want to go home."

"That's what she said. Is that was she said? I think that's what she said."

Timmy hoisted a finger in the direction of the bedroom.

"I mean, I've heard her say that..."

Timmy walked past Russell, snatching up his arm along the way, leading him slowly in the direction of the bedroom. "To bed."

"Is this what you're like with women? You can tell me. Are they into that, like, you've got the nerd thing going and then all of a sudden you turn around and you're like, 'get in my bed, NOW!' And you just rip off their clothes, right? Bet you're wild in the sack..."

"And I would tell you about my sexual endeavors why, sir?"

"Tell you about mine all the time."

"Yes, I bleach my brain regularly."

"Bleach your...!" Russell started in laughing again. Laughter that was cut off shortly by a shove from Timmy through a door.

"There, the bedroom. We're in your bedroom, fair enough? I'm going to go now, and-" But Timmy hesitated, eyes closing down hard, legs nearly folding in on themselves.

"You okay, dude?"

"Just a touch dizzy..."

"You need to sit down, you gonna be all right?" There was genuine concern suddenly in Russell's voice, and Timmy strained opening his eyes to look at him. The concern was on his face, as well, but Timmy declined the offer, approaching Russell on wobbling legs.

It was his job to ensure Russell's safety, not the other way around. But then, of course, his job description really didn't entail accompanying home a drunken Russell Dunbar at all...certainly not all the way into his bedroom...

There were certain things Timmy Patel told himself in specific instances to keep from going insane.

Or, perhaps, to keep a particular variety of feelings at bay.

But whatever thoughts Timmy was thinking now as he approached Russell were suddenly replaced by the rambling of a drunken man.

"You know what, Katie's too good for you, anyway."

Timmy paused a moment to sneer in Russell's direction.

"No, I...wait. Too good for her, you're WAY too good for her, dude."

"Ah, yes...well...thank you."

"Yeah, man, who needs that stuck up bitch, anyway?"

"She thought we were gay," Timmy mumbled, pulling Russell's arm about his neck and beginning the walk towards his bed.

"Pft! Ha, that's good. Well I mean, I'm not, obviously you are."

Timmy rolled his eyes lightly.

"But hey, bet I'd treat you a hell of a lot better than that skank tank, if you were my man I would, uh...breakfast in bed, every day."

"Food poisoning."

"Hand-written love notes."

"Do you know how to write?"

"And aaalllll the sex."

"Venereal disease."

Russell scoffed heavily. "You're so mean, you're like, the worst gay lover I've ever had."

With this Timmy released Russell to sit upon the side of the bed. "Well, I do aim to please, sir."

"More promises you don't intend to keep." As Russell gripped the edge of the bed to keep himself upward, his look was a touch too drunkenly seductive for Timmy's fancy, who aimed to turn, but the dizzy spell returned.

His legs nearly gave way, and he placed a hand to Russell's chest, steadying himself.

"Oh? Change your mind?" asked Russell with a chuckle.

When all at once Timmy toppled, his head spinning. His feet failed him. He fell forward.

Timmy felt every inch of his legs fizzle out, and his hands grasped futilely at the air as he felt the weight of his body give in, collapsing against the bed.

But then, the bed was very much occupied.

He had collapsed square against Russell, sending them both flat upon the bed. Russell, who grunted mildly in shock of the sudden physical assault...until he looked up, finding Timmy's face.

Finding Timmy's lips. Very close to his, breath escaping near enough to reach his own.

For a time there were no movements, both men in a stunned silence.

Russell felt suddenly very warm.

From...from the alcohol.

Timmy quickly realized his predicament and aimed to right himself, but there came a dizzying heat. New. Strange.

From the alcohol. Of course.

He couldn't move.

Russell attempted to laugh off the current situation. _LOL, guys bein' guys, we're sooo drunk!_ Doing so only cemented the fact that the men were indeed pressed very near together; their chests lunged closer.

The laughter from Russell's breath caught in Timmy's mouth.

Why had neither of them moved, yet?

Timmy's leg had landed somehow between the legs of the man beneath him, sandwiched in a most peculiar tangle of appendages.

And in this moment both men's heads raced.

 _'What the fuck,'_ thought Russell, _'go back down, we don't come up for Timmy!'_

 _'He has an erection,'_ thought Timmy. _'Don't mention his erection. Well why WOULD you mention his erection. Oh my god, do YOU have an erection?! Get him off, Timmy...no, no, you get off, you're on top. Wait... NO! What are you thinking, STOP THINKING! Stupid, drunken brain!'_

 _'Man, what's he doing with his face...oh, my god, I've never really seen his...eyes this close before...whoa, they're like, super brown...his...skin looks really soft... DOWN! I told you to go down, that's like, the opposite of down! Why do you never listen to me?!'_

Timmy's voice emerged finally, cracked. "Well, it's been a...lovely evening, I..." Words from struggling lips; painfully near Russell's. "I should get off- b-be off...on my way...home, my way...where I live."

Russell found his eyes closing down; the extended heat of Timmy's breath against his face was not helping to curb his erection.

No cutting corners. A simple anatomical response, of course, like, he was turned on and stuff because pft, get him in bed, touch his dick, get turned on, it had nothing to do with Timmy.

 _'That's the story. I'm sticking to it.'_

"I don't think you should leave, Timmy."

Timmy pushed himself up slightly, and chanced a meeting with Russell's eyes. Doing so forced their legs to collide a touch, brushing Russell's cock in the process. Russell regrettably winced. Timmy did his best to overlook this fact.

He did his best as well to overlook Russell's eyes attempting to travel downward out of curiosity, to assure himself of the fact that he was not the only man in the room unduly aroused in this moment. A small flick of the eyes. But enough to confirm his suspicions.

 _'Damn, he's packing heat, it's gotta be bigger than mine. Maybe I could have him whip it out, we could compare dicks. That's guy stuff, right, that's stuff guys do?'_

"Sir, I really..."

"Stay here for just a minute, get your sea legs back. But, uh...but over..." Russell pointed above his head.

And Timmy carefully, very carefully, picked himself up; he untangled his legs most delicately from Russell's, but in such a drunken state, these things are easier said than done.

He ended up feeling more of Russell this evening than he cared to admit.

The edge of the bed helped him brace his way around to the other side, where finally he laid lengthwise, very near the edge. But not before grabbing a pillow, placing it nonchalantly over...a certain physical region.

When Timmy looked to his side, he found Russell in precisely the same position. Pillow and all.

"So..." Russell braved words. Timmy held no reply. "Uh...hey, we really rocked that stage, tonight."

"Yes," came Timmy's curt reply, eyes locking to the ceiling.

"They uh, they loved us up there, huh? We're a pretty great team, when we...when we wanna be...teamin' up, and stuff..."

"Yes."

Russell took a very deep breath. His eyes landed on Timmy. In his bed. The alcohol bubbles tiptoed throughout his brain, giggling like little schoolgirls. _You know what you want, Russell...! Tell him, tell him, tellll himmmm!_

"Y'know, sometimes guys do stuff with other guys."

"What?" shot Timmy, glaring back at Russell.

"What's what?" Russell returned. "Go to sleep, you're delusional, you're hearing things, you should rest or something, I'm just...I'm gonna..." And Russell took to his feet. Shaking, wobbling feet, gripping random objects for support as he went, focused only on escaping the heat of the bedroom.

When he was gone, Timmy let out a very long, very deep breath, eyes returning to the ceiling. He patted the pillow above his crotch nervously, waiting for his erection to subside, not really knowing what else to do.

Timmy had been sabotaged this evening; instead of ending up in bed with the woman of his dreams, he'd ended up in bed with Russell Dunbar. Russell had a habit, it would seem, of sabotaging many of Timmy's attempts with women. A most curious fact.

If Timmy hadn't been so terribly drunk, this might have all meant something to him.

As he pulled himself from bed this evening, leaving the bedroom and walking his way past Russell, who pretended to sleep upon the living room sofa, there was only one fact to which Timmy could rest most assured.

Never again would he allow himself to enter Russell Dunbar's bedroom.


	5. E is for Envelope

**E is for Envelope**

Timmy licked the seal on another envelope and firmly pressed the flap closed before adding it to the growing stack upon his desk.

Some sort of company mail, staff-wide. Only another hundred or so to go. Another job requirement well beneath the scope of his education.

"Aren't you done yet? C'mon, I wanna see you work that tongue."

Timmy paused mid-lick, tongue pressed firm against the next envelope, eyes locking with those of his boss upon what he presumed a quite unintentionally homoerotic declaration. He allowed a final drag of his tongue along the length of the paper, in spite of the fact that Russell was watching his moves with an unsettling sort of intensity.

Yes. In spite of this fact, most assuredly.

He then released the envelope back to the desk, and grimaced slightly. "Disgusting. If I'm going to do this, I'm not going to keep at it this way." And he left his desk, towards the hall.

"Where are you going?! You've got a job to do, these envelopes aren't gonna seal themselves, you get your tongue back here!"

"I'll find a sponge. You have a tongue as well, you should know, you certainly wag it enough."

"What did you just-"

"Nothing!"

Russell grumbled in Timmy's absence and mocked him, looking to the mess of mail upon the desk. "'You certainly wag it enough,' neh-neh-neh, fine, whatever, I can lick a stupid envelope."

And he snatched the envelope Timmy had been holding, placing his tongue upon the seal...and he started to lick.

And he paused, tongue pressed against the paper in realization.

The seal was wet.

Russell's eyes widened very slowly; his breathing slowed as he looked around the empty office.

 _'Oh god, oh god, oh god.'_

Timmy had already licked the envelope.

For a moment Russell panicked, but never did he think to retrieve his tongue. No, it seemed easier to hyperventilate, envelope poised delicately between his fingers, lingering between his lips.

 _'Timmy germs! Ah damn it, it's like you're frenching the guy, what are you doing?! Spit it out, already!'_

And his eyes closed down; his breathing steadied.

And slowly, very slowly, he licked. Russell's tongue ran the length of the seal of the envelope with a careful, calculated precision.

A long, slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue against the smooth, wet seal where shortly before had rested the mouth of another.

The movements of a man thinking deep, forbidden thoughts.

Imagining.

If he really concentrated... maybe... he... could... taste...

"Hey, Russell."

Russell jumped, eyeing Adam with uneasy breaths as he thrust the tool of his imaginings back upon Timmy's desk. He looked back to the envelope with a sudden disdain, reaching down, pounding the seal shut.

He spoke not a word to Adam as he walked swiftly past, all the way towards his office, and closed the door firmly behind him.

When Timmy returned shortly thereafter, Adam turned to him.

"Uh, hey, what's up with Russell?"

"What do you mean?"

Adam glanced back towards Russell's door, then to Timmy. "Huh...nothing, I guess. Hey, those ready to mail? I'll take 'em down for ya."

"Why yes, just-" Timmy looked to his desk, and touched the freshly sealed envelope curiously, sensing something off. He quickly shrugged the thought away. "Yes, of course."

As Adam took the stack of mail for delivery, Timmy chanced to notice Russell peering out his office window; he pulled back quickly upon their eyes meeting.

Most curious.

* * *

The next day, Timmy found a box on his desk. He opened it up to find a grand supply of envelopes.

Self-sealing envelopes.

"Give your tongue a break," muttered Russell as he walked past Timmy's desk, eyes locked to the ground as he made a beeline straight for his office.

Yes. Most curious indeed.


	6. F is for Fears

**F is for Fears**

It took both Russell and Timmy some time to fully process what had just made way into the office. A bloody mess, that's what, but wearing a broad grin, as if he ought to be proud of himself.

Adam stood there, arms stretched, waiting for a response that clearly wasn't coming. "Well...huh? Pretty creepy, right?"

Russell looked away, interest waning. "What, you get hit by a cab on the way over here, or something?"

"I'm a zombie! C'mon, I worked all night on this costume, why am I the only one in the office around here with any Halloween spirit?"

Timmy simply let loose a slow, uncomfortable whistle, hands behind his back, eyes diverting from the mess that was Adam.

"Yeah, well." Adam sighed defeatedly. "Only person I've scared so far was that new woman in accounting, but I think I have that whole stranger factor working in my favor, y'know? Everybody else goes 'hey, Adam,' and keeps on walking. I don't look like this everyday, do I?" No response. "What am I doing wrong?"

Excitedly, Adam approached Timmy, whose eyes widened at the undead assault. "Maybe I need to take an impartial survey for next year. What scares you guys?"

"I find impartial surveys rather unnerving," muttered Timmy.

"Wanna know what scares Tim?" piped in Russell, interest resurfacing.

Timmy's eyes narrowed in irritation.

"Breaking curfew...threat of a good time...losing his virginity..."

"Sir-"

"Colonialism."

"And you, sir?" Ever an even keel to the voice; well rehearsed. Not worth the fuss.

"What about me?"

"Yeah," said Adam, "You must have a few deep-seated fears up in there, huh, Russell?"

"Pft, serious? What would I be scared of?"

"C'mon, everybody's afraid of something."

"Not me." Russell, tiring of this conversation, found himself walking lazily towards his office. "Nerves of steel," he proclaimed, disappearing and closing the door behind him.

Timmy made his opinion known in the form of suppressed laughter, fist to mouth.

Adam turned to him with a chuckle. "Who's he kidding?"

Timmy worked to gather himself before offering up an amused, "I once saw him cower from a group of ducks in Central Park."

"Ducks?"

"There was another instance with a squirrel...suffice it to say, animals hate the man, but no, in all honesty, I can give you a run down of Mr. Dunbar's fears. Shall we?"

"Shoot."

"Romantic commitment."

"Well, yeah, obviously."

"Paternity tests."

"Oh, man, seen that one first hand."

"Getting smaller."

The men shared a hearty bout of laughter before Adam recovered, waving Timmy down. "Yeah...at this point, it's probably easier to make a list of things Russell isn't scared of."

Perhaps the men would have amused themselves in compiling such a list if, in the next breath, Russell had not stormed out from his office, calling for Timmy's presence in such a manner as to suggest a state of emergency.

Timmy followed quickly, unsure of what he'd find on the other side of the door...nothing. He found nothing, and Russell led him to the far side of the office, near the window.

"Well, there it is, it's huge, I got within an inch of the thing and it tried to kill me!"

Timmy looked across the length of the wall, finding nothing of any interest. He looked out the window; nothing. "Sir...?"

"The spider! Eight hairy legs of unfathomable death, fangs full of toxic venom, eyeing my neck, this beautiful neck..." He pulled his collar away, exposing his neck, shoving it in Timmy's direction...as if it might be of interest.

"Ah." Timmy backed away from Russell, decidedly uninterested, moving further towards the wall. Eyes scanning. Scanning. And there is was.

Tiny. A tiny thing, this spider. Naturally.

"Well?" urged Russell with bated breath. He watched as Timmy began to crack a window, hand poised to the side of the beast. "Wh...what are you doing, aren't you gonna kill it?! Smash it or something, you need a book, here, I've got tons of books..." He made his way behind his desk, pulling a book from his shelf. "Here, use this one, Ethics in Business, when am I ever gonna use this thing?"

"No need, sir. Crisis averted."

Russell stood stunned for a moment or two. The men met eyes, sizing one another up, knowing full well what had just happened. And then, chuckling, Russell slid his book back in place.

"Oh, Timmy. So cowardly, can't even kill a minuscule little spider."

It had been the expected response, a prompt turnabout. Timmy shrugged it off, beginning an easy stride out of the office. "There was no sense in killing the spider, sir. I assure you, it was more afraid of you than you were of it."

"What, is this more of that Eastern philosophy, peace in the world, peace in my heart mumbo-jumbo? If it's my life or his, one of us is goin' down, buddy, and it ain't me!"

"Hm. Very well, sir...do let me know if your life is threatened again, I'll come and open another window."

As Timmy left the office, returning to his desk with a sigh, his zombie compatriot leaned in with a shake of his head.

"Dunno how you put up with Russell, sometimes."

"Well," Timmy replied lackadaisically, "perhaps he's the spider."

"What?"

Timmy looked to Adam, a slight, thoughtful smile forming against the corners of his lips. "Perhaps...when it comes right down to it...he's more afraid of me than I am of him."

From the next room came a monstrous, demanding cry: "TIIIIIMMYYY!"

Timmy sighed; he stood slowly. He straightened his tie, clenching his eyes closed in preparation. A deep breath. A nod, walking rapidly, making his way back towards the spider's web. "Then again..."


	7. G is for Glasses

**G is for Glasses**

This was highly inappropriate behavior for the workplace; so, what else was new?

Timmy groaned internally as he looked up towards his boss, who lingered just over his shoulder, interrupting his work with a suspicious grin. "Sir?"

"I should have done this years ago."

"Done...what?"

"Yoink!"

And so it was that Russell removed Timmy's glasses from upon his face, placing them upon his own.

Oh, dear lord.

"Who-o-oa! How the heck can you see in these things?"

"They're prescription glasses, and I need them to see, I really don't appreciate..."

Oh, for heaven's sake, Russell was acting as if he were intoxicated with his new compromised vision, turning a slow circle with a soft, "Whoooa..."

"Sir, may I please..."

Nope, they'd moved on to mocking. "Look at meee! I'm Timmy, I wear glasses and I'm British!"

"South African," corrected Timmy in the most frustrated voice he could muster. Truth be told, he was more bored than angry.

Let him play his little game so work could carry on, as per usual.

 _You know_ , Timmy's brain said, _other places are hiring._

"Hey, do your nerd glasses make me look smart? Think I could land nerd chicks with these things?"

"Not in the slightest, and no. You would still require a certain level of oh, I don't know, intelligence."

"Whoa, mean! Who harshed your mellow, man?"

There was a bit of consolation in this madness; Timmy, being far-sighted, couldn't see the idiot standing before him quite so clearly for the duration of this stupidity.

When at last he stood, walking directly towards Russell and snatching his glasses back from upon his face, Russell pouted a bit before retreating into his office, muttering a small, "Eh, you're no fun."

Timmy cleaned his glasses thoroughly before returning them to his face. "I'm fun...I'm all kinds of fun..." He groused for some time at his desk, pouting quite childishly.

 _Oooother places are hiring_ , his brain repeated. Ad nauseam, as it always did.

"Oh, shut up," he told his brain at last, and set back to work.


	8. H is for Hotel

**H is for Hotel**

"We were supposed to have two rooms," insisted Timmy. "We specifically requested-"

"It says here one room, king size, no smoking."

"And you're quite sure of that? Who booked the reservation?"

"We have it down under Dunbar. He requested champagne on ice, and-"

"E-excuse me." Timmy practically flailed his arm atop the hotel lobby counter, startling the man attending to him. "You said king size, do you mean to indicate our room has one bed?"

"Ah, yes, sir."

"Wonderful...just fantastic, please excuse me, won't you?" And he turned swiftly, ready to pounce at the first sign of him.

"Your keys?"

He turned back for the keys, voice unable to hold back frustration. "Thank you so much. I apologize if there's blood in the morning, I'll pay for any damages."

* * *

Timmy patted the sofa in hopes of a convertible; nothing. He sat down. He stretched out, attempting comfort.

Terrible, it was terrible.

"I said I was sorry, what more do you want from me?"

"I never should have allowed you to book the hotel, why am I having you do my job for me?"

"Yeah, good question, what am I even paying you for?" Russell pulled a bottle of liquor from a bucket, examining the label. "Not bad. Hey, you wanna wet your whistle, take the edge off? You're tense, man."

"I'm tense because we have a presentation at seven in the morning, and I'm now forced to spend the evening beside you in bed as you get drunk on hotel champagne and order pay-per-view pornography. Precisely my idea of a good time, thank you very much."

"It's _my_ presentation, anyway, why do you always get like this, huh?"

"Your presentations _are_ my presentations, I've been working the last six weeks on that proposal. The least you could do is show a bit of gratitude."

"I offered you champagne!"

Timmy had no further response; Russell found his sudden silence off-putting and confusing as he abandoned his alcohol, walking the length of the room. He positioned himself finally on the opposite side from Timmy, in a small chair.

And the room fell silent. Too silent. Every time Russell opened his mouth to speak, he closed it again.

Man, he really sucked at this.

Whatever...this was.

When at last Timmy took to his feet, he retrieved several items from his suitcase. Russell tried resisting, but watched carefully as the man collected several items and finally made his way towards the bathroom.

And he found words, then. "It's good."

Timmy froze, turning back. "What?"

"Uh, the proposal. It's good. You...did a good job."

Timmy offered a soft smile...genuine, Russell believed, but no more words as he vanished into the bathroom.

And Russell sank down in his chair, hands to his face, heart catching speed.

* * *

They had both taken time to shower and had now positioned themselves on either side of the bed. Russell quite comfortably, Timmy pressed as near to the edge as possible, attempting to read.

"I'm not gonna bite," said Russell finally, noting how far away Timmy was.

Timmy gave Russell a curious look.

"Unless you're into that, man."

The sneer that graced Timmy's face was a bit disappointing.

"Dude, I'm kidding! What's your problem, haven't you ever been in bed with a guy, before?"

"You pose the most ridiculous questions, sometimes."

"So, only me? Loyalty, that's a good quality in a man."

Timmy's sigh was one of exacerbation. He felt it necessary to abandon his book to the side-table. "Honestly, this is uncomfortable enough without you cracking jokes."

"Whatever. So how about that pay-per-view?"

"Absolutely not."

* * *

They'd both fallen asleep some time ago. And, as one would imagine, sleep leads to dreams. One man's mind had drifted quite naturally to a reasonable continuation of their current situation.

So maybe it was a dream, but in here, nobody had fallen asleep. How could they? There were more important tasks at hand.

"You've wanted this for a long time, haven't you?"

Timmy pushed himself up on one arm, facing Russell...his answer came not in the form of words, but in held breath and piercing eyes.

"Yeah, Tim, I watch you. Watching me. You think you play it cool, huh, a big secret?"

At last Timmy took a breath, looking away. "I should have known better than to try and hide it, sir."

"You know what would really turn me on?"

Timmy gazed up sheepishly.

"Call me Russell...I wanna hear my name come outta those gorgeous lips."

Timmy bit a lip, appearing quite coy. And then: "Yes, of course. Russell."

"Nng. Yes. Tell me what you want...say it like you mean it..."

"I...wish to make love. Russell."

Russell waved Timmy across the bed, and found him a moment later crawling on hands and knees towards him, very much like a cat. If only he had meowed...

No meowing. Only lips on lips, deep and hungry. Russell flipped Timmy to his back in a natural movement, a flow of energy surging between them like electricity.

Quite literal, as lightning bolts shot through the room now, illuminating them both in the center of the bed, a visual representation of sparks ignited. (They were, after all, still in a dream.)

"We'll make love now," said Russell. "And you'll enjoy it. Because you've wanted me from the first day you laid eyes on me."

"Yes," said Timmy, nearly crying.

"What is it you love so much about me?"

"Everything."

"Be, uh...be a little more specific."

"Your eyes, so mesmerizing...your flowing hair, the envy of lesser men...your body, so toned, so refined..."

"Oh yeah, keep going."

"Your way with words."

"I do speak very well."

"The way you love me..."

"That one." And Russell embraced Timmy very deeply, arms wrapping all about him.

Magically, their clothes were gone. And magically, their bodies were united.

Russell was deep inside of Timmy; Timmy's eyes were closed, head thrown back in ecstasy.

They fit together perfectly, as if their bodies had been pristinely carved by some divinity in preparation for this act.

"You feel amazing," declared Russell, movements smooth and steady. "I never knew it could feel like this..." He touched Timmy's face; Timmy leaned in, embracing the fingers curled against his cheek.

"I always knew, Russell," Timmy spoke in near-whisper. "When you truly love somebody..." He gasped as Russell thrust within him deeper, growing ever closer to release. His fingertips dove deep against the curve of Russell's back, nearly piercing flesh. "It feels like heaven is on fire."

Russell's breath grew very heavy. The storm returned, lightning flashing all around in the still of the room.

And two men arched upon the bed in the throes of release, in the center of a storm, primal screams of bliss echoing throughout the night in perfect harmony.

The rain came to wash them clean. It soaked through skin, and bed, and world.

"This place is a mess," said Russell with a smile, hair tumbling down slick with rain. "The hotel's gonna charge us a fortune."

Timmy smiled back up, placing a hand to either side of Russell's face. "You can afford it. Besides, this is all a dream."

Russell laughed. He nearly cried. "I know this is a dream, but can I...can I just hold you for awhile? Can we just stay like this?"

Timmy's arms fell to Russell's back, wrapping tight, drawing him very close. "You know how to make this real, Russell."

"I can't. I can't do it."

"Then just stay here now. I won't leave you." Timmy placed a soft kiss to the side of Russell's neck. "He won't leave you, either."

* * *

There were two men dreaming this evening.

Slowly, two heads turned so as to look at one another...did it appear as though they were suddenly laying a great deal closer than they had been, before?

Yes. Mere inches apart.

"You look warm..." Russell winked in an exaggerated manner. "You should probably take off all those clothes."

Shockingly, Timmy began to do as instructed. He sat upon his knees, and began undressing in a flurry.

"Oh, damn." Russell's eyes grew very large, taking in as much newly exposed skin as he possibly could before standing straight up in bed. "Okay, so we're doing this? Yeah? Let's do this."

However, it appeared Timmy had another idea. Stripped of clothing, finding his companion merely topless, he pulled Russell back to bed in a brazen attacking of his body, crawling atop him, desiring it seemed to feel every inch of him.

"No way. Oh, my god, no way you're like this."

Timmy no longer allowed Russell words, too busy kissing him with a depth and sincerity the likes of which Russell had never been kissed before. And yet...

Timmy sat back now, smacking Russell straight across the face.

The impact of the slap shook the room, creating sound waves all around the men. When at last the noise had settled, Timmy gripped Russell firmly by the hair, pulling his head upward, leaning in very close to his ear.

"I wish to kill you," he said. "But I also wish to have sex with you. You see my dilemma."

"S-sex first," begged Russell.

"You're the worst person I've ever known, and yet I can't foresee a future without you in it! How do we resolve this?"

"We...we fuck and get it over with?!"

The men looked at one another for an extended period of time, Russell's hair still clenched firmly in Timmy's fist.

At last Timmy relented: "Yes, I suppose you have a point."

"Of course I do!"

Timmy released Russell's head to collapse back upon the bed.

And out shot the ropes. There whipped one from the sky at lightning speed, snapping about Russell's left wrist and securing his hand to the bed. He stared, wide-eyed. "What the hell..."

A moment later he found his right hand in much the same predicament. He looked first to broken ceiling and the ropes dangling from a darkened nowhere, tugging at his arms to no avail.

He looked to Timmy for answers. Timmy placed a finger against his mouth, leaning in and voicing a simple, "Shhhh..."

As Timmy crawled off of Russell, the remainder of the lower man's clothing was pulled from his body by invisible hands in one fell swoop...certainly not by Timmy, for he sat quite comfortably, cross-legged, observing all that was happening.

And Russell voiced more curiosity than objection. "Tim, what...what's happening?"

"I believe I've been granted a bit of assistance."

"I mean, I'm into it, I guess, but, uh-"

"How long have you wanted me, Russell?"

Russell's head fell back. He said nothing.

"You've just placed us in this bed together, you want me to believe this was all an accident? You act as if I shouldn't know, do you think I'm stupid? I'm not stupid. Timmy isn't stupid. We both know that Timmy is highly intelligent. What's more, Timmy should know better than to think he doesn't want you back. Why, just look at the scenario he's concocted. We're about to copulate, for heaven's sake." Timmy paused, appearing suddenly quite bewildered.

"What's up?" spoke Russell, quite casually despite his present state, tugging at a roped arm. "We doin' this, or what?"

Timmy took a deep breath, looked to Russell, and gave a firm nod. "Yes." A moment later he was between Russell's legs, paying very close attention to his erection. He made little fuss of this, as though he had performed the act a million times. Mouth full of a man's penis, nothing to write home about.

But Russell was begging. "Just take me. I need it, I need you. I love you, Timmy."

Timmy abandoned his current mission in favor of glaring at Russell...then hiking his legs up in a particularly rough manner. But rather than carrying on, he took to speaking with himself.

"He's just said he loves you, Timmy. This is your dream, what do you make of this?" To himself, he replied: "Well, you must believe it, why else would you have him say it?" Then, in response: "This dream really isn't going according to plan, you know we really should just-"

"Hey, Tim?"

He looked down to Russell. "Yes...so sorry." And he plunged all at once full force into Russell, wasting no time now in the carnal act at hand.

Dream time moves at a rather strange pace, it would seem. Perhaps Timmy had driven into Russell for several seconds, perhaps hours. The room was full of colors now, many colors, watercolors dripping from the air, a work of art painted somehow by an act of unfiltered lust.

And the only sounds coming from the men were soft, satisfied breaths, until at last Timmy lunged forth one final time, exploding in a sea of color, brighter now, as if from every pore. Russell watched him with great intent, voicing a soft, stunned, "Wow..."

All the colors faded. Russell's binds let loose, winding slowly, discretely up and away. And Timmy crumpled to the bed. A moment later, Russell grabbed him, pulling him up next to him, laying him down. He pulled the covers atop him, stroking his face gently.

"Why are you like this...?" asked Timmy softly.

"Your dream," said Russell. "Y'know...one of these days you're gonna have to tell him."

Timmy did not speak.

"I mean, tell awake you first, right? That you love me? That guy seems pretty mixed up about the situation. Then tell me. Well, real me. Just so long as we're all on the same page." Russell planted a soft kiss on Timmy's cheek before turning in bed, settling in for the night. "Love you, baby."

And Timmy stared into the darkness. Falling. Lost.

* * *

Two men had awoken in the middle of the night. They laid back to back, far apart, perhaps each aware the other was also stirring; breathing shallow breaths, daring not move for fear of uttering a word, of sparking late-night conversation.

The dreams were faint recollections. But enough. Just enough. Legs pressed firm together now, holding secrets, daring not reveal how bodies should betray brains' orders.

One thought flooded both men now in the dark of the room: 'Why does this keep happening?'

They both implored the dreams to end.

* * *

"Why should I have to wear a tie, anyway?"

"Sir...we've discussed this, a necktie is more professional than bearing a bit of chest and chain, now finish up. You've twenty minutes."

Russell's hands began to fumble as he watched his reflection in the mirror; he knew how to tie the stupid tie, he wore them once in awhile, but for some reason his nerves were particularly frayed. Upon the third trip down the rabbit hole, he let out a guttural growl of frustration.

Timmy looked to Russell, brow furrowing, chewing a lip in contemplation. And he joined Russell in front of the mirror. "No, it's not...not that way, you need to...let me do it."

Timmy observed Russell's reflection a moment before pushing before him, facing him, grasping the mess he'd created. "It's really not that complicated..."

"I'm just...nerves."

"Yes, well..." Timmy's hands made a quick job of releasing the tangles in Russell's tie.

Russell flinched at Timmy's touch. A slight touch upon slight skin. But enough. Just enough.

Timmy made a faster job yet of completing the task of actually tying the thing. And then...

"Ow, dude..."

"Sorry." He'd pulled just a bit...too...tight. He loosened the knot, then went the extra effort of straightening Russell's collar, and took a slight step back in examination. "You look fine."

"Thanks, I guess."

Eyes met then in a silent exchange of information; of what, neither man was sure. But suddenly, the air felt very thick. And finally, Russell's mouth spoke faster than his brain could think.

"I want you..."

"...What?"

Fast, brain, think fast. "...To call a cab, we've gotta be there in what, twenty? Gonna be late, wasting time on ties and stuff. Like it matters what I wear, nobody can resist this face, huh?"

Timmy nodded. "Yes, sir..." But as his feet set in motion, he could not help but look back to Russell, whose eyes diverted now to his own reflection in the mirror.

And so Russell's eyes shifted in the mirror to Timmy's figure, walking slowly out of frame.

He'd pushed him away; and so, he'd left.

Nothing ever changed.


	9. I is for Inquisition

**I is for Inquisition**

 _'So, how was the sex?'_

A coquettish woman several states away received Russell Dunbar's email. She stared at the screen for some time, lost in the words, until at last she connected them with the name of the sender.

How had he even gotten this email address? Allison considered first confronting her ex-boyfriend, Timmy, over the textual assault. But then, she knew the nightmare that was his boss, and the breakup nearing two years ago had been more than amenable...and so...

 _'Why are you emailing me, Mr. Dunbar?'_

His reply was far from shocking.

 _'Idle curiosity. He's still taking this pretty hard ... ha hard get it? So what was he a lousy lay or something? I mean you put out enough so that can't be it._

 _I'm just trying to get an idea here of the kind of lover Timmy is so I can help him out in future endeavors. As his boss, I find it my responsibility to assure he not screw up again. This line of questioning is all for his benefit, naturally._

 _I assure you this is strictly business.'_

Allison adjusted her glasses, grounding herself and shoving down her anger before typing back with heavy fingers.

 _'Mr. Dunbar, it was none of your concern then, and it is none of your concern now. How you can classify interfering with the personal lives of your employees as 'business,' I will never understand. I suggest you leave Timmy alone and kindly butt out of his personal affairs.'_

She thought this was the end of it; indeed, it was a good hour without a new reply. But then came an onslaught. The farthest from professional he could have been, and sounding rather something like a crazed lover.

 _'Allison,_

 _First of all he's been with me a hell of a lot longer than he was ever with you. Butt out of his personal affairs? Sister, I AM his personal affairs. Bet you miss him right about now, don't you? That beautiful bronze skin pressed up against your creamy white breasts, in your office in the middle of the damn work day, you wanna know where Timmy is? Outside MY office right now and then you know where he's gonna be? Going out with me. Like always. Because I OWN HIM. He's always gonna be mine and then where are you? In Chicago crying over spilt Timmy? OhhhHHHhHhhhh poor Allison, boo hoo. :(_

 _Shove it._

 _Sincere regards,_  
 _Russell T. Dunbar'_

Alison's fingers, which had been poised to reply at the start of the email, now pulled back ever so slowly from the keyboard.

She crossed her arms, a touch of protection, and tried to piece together what she had just read before looking to her phone in contemplation.

She made the call.

Timmy answered, quite confused. "Uhm...h-hello?"

"Hi, Timmy."

"Yes...Allison? Hello. It's...been a long time."

"I just...was, uhm...are you doing okay?"

Timmy could not have been more confused. "I'm...I'm fine. Are you okay?"

"I just worry about you sometimes."

"Allison..." Timmy's voice grew soft in reassurance. "I assure you, I'm fine, what would there be to-"

Allison heard shouting across the line; Russell had just exited his office, shouting some muffled command.

"Mm. Well, he's out of sorts," Timmy muttered, mostly to himself.

"Just be careful," said Allison.

Timmy laughed lightly. "What in heaven's name brought this on?"

Inside his office, Russell pulled a small book from his desk. He opened it to the first blank page, near the center, and wrote along the top: 'Allison'. Underneath he wrote: 'No information. Skank.'

He flipped back through previous pages, each topped with the name of a different woman. All women Timmy had seen under Russell's watch.

He'd considered going back further; he'd dug up Timmy's college records, he had names on standby, but at the last second his stupid little conscience knocked his head into shape (and he couldn't even believe that thing was still kickin' around)...but not enough to scrap the whole project, of course. Anything that happened to Timmy under his employ was his business.

He had a certain way of justifying certain thoughts and actions.

Some women has been reluctant to talk, others had served up some helpful information after a little financial lubrication. None of them wanted to squeal on how big the member was. Whatever, he'd gotten some other interesting deets.

He'd concluded he was probably a better lover than Timmy. After all, that was really the end goal in all of this, right? He couldn't have Timmy one-upping him.

Why else would he ever need to know that Timmy enjoyed nibbling ears during sex? So stupid, it was always stuff like that, attention to detail, like he really wanted to BE there with the woman or something? Get in, get out! None of these small kisses against the nape of the neck...whispering sweet nothings...the...ear nibbles...

Pft, like this was useful information. Like Timmy was ever going to nibble _Russell's_ ears, or something. Ha, ha, ha. Ha...ha...

Why, uh...why would Russell ever need to know that Timmy had a particularly ticklish spot right below his ribcage on the left side? Russell was never going to tickle him there, for hell's sake!

Or...or that some chick named Kathleen said Timmy was one of the best lovers she'd ever had? I mean, geez, high praise, Kathleen. Like Russell would ever be putting that to the test, pffft.

Or...or that Timmy uh, he had this way of gasping ever so slightly when he ate something he found particularly enjoyable. That wasn't in the book. Every time Russell took Timmy out to eat, when he had something good in his mouth, he'd make this...noise. Russell had once joked that he was having a foodgasm and to keep it in his pants.

Is that...is that what he sounded like during sex...? Is that the kind of thing you could ask a woman...?

Wait, no, _why did he want to know that_?! Russell gazed down at the book before him, for one brief moment, common sense breaking through the thick shell of his brain. Why did he want to know any of this?!

The office door opened. _Slam_ went the book, in walked Timmy. All the way towards Russell's desk. For a time he appeared reluctant in speaking, and so Russell offered up nonchalantly: "Hey, Timster, what's happenin'?"

"Sir, did you by any chance...send an email to Allison?"

"Pft! Who?"

"My ex-girlfriend. Allison." Nothing. He spoke a touch more pointedly: "Who had previously been employed with-"

"Oh! Your little office squeeze, sure." He stood, discretely slipping the book back to a drawer as he walked to the front of the desk. "How about lunch?"

"She did say you emailed her."

"Did she, uh...tell you what was in that email?"

"Well, no, she simply-"

"Must've put the wrong name on the CC line, you know how it is. Busy executive, frazzled brain, busy busy busy."

Timmy knew there was a lie behind Russell's words. He couldn't quite untangle what it was, but he had to weigh his options; this had been an intimate invasion, perhaps, and for what purpose, he couldn't say.

He couldn't say, either, what compelled him to drop the matter.

"Lunch?" posed Russell.

Timmy sighed out deeply. "Well, I suppose..."

"Yeah, take a long lunch. We'll go down to that place you like, uhh...Italian place on fifth."

"Oh, they serve a delightful zabaione, to die for."

"Clearly. You have a damn foodgasm whenever you eat there." And so the men started for the door, shoving down secrets. "Just don't go whipping it out in the restaurant, wait until we get back to the office, okay?"


	10. J is for Journals

**J is for Journals**

Jeff popped a fry in his mouth, grumbling through the tail end of his story. "So long story short, she catches me reading the thing and she flies totally off the handle. Like I'm about to read the name of her secret crush, or something."

Adam seemed genuinely concerned by Jeff's statements. "I dunno, man, journals are private for a reason...if I ever caught Jen trying to snoop through mine-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Jeff wore a smirk. "You're telling me you have a diary?" He looked to his right, towards Timmy, then across the booth towards Russell. "You guys back me up on this one, kooky or what? I mean. I've never had a diary in my life."

Timmy shrugged, taking a sip of coffee. "I see nothing wrong in keeping a journal, Mr. Bingham. I've been known to write down my inner-most dialogues, it can act as a form of therapy...catharsis. Heaven knows what might happen if I didn't take a moment to commit my more unseemly thoughts to paper." He took careful aim to set sight on Russell across the booth; a death glare.

Russell ignored this. "I'm with Jeff, diaries are for girls. Frilly pink stuff, glitter stickers, uh... 'Billy frenched me today in study hall, Brittany's a whore!'...that's what twelve year olds think about, right?"

"Whatever," said Adam. "Timmy gets it. It's just a place to get a little me time, talk to myself. I'm with Audrey on this one."

Jeff huffed. "Whatever. Wasn't anything good in there anyway, nothing she hasn't said to my face a bunch of times. Took it away before I could get to any of the real dirt."

A moment of silence passed, the topic seemingly dropped before Russell broke through with laughter, pointing Timmy's way. "Ha, you have a diary." A slight delay in this reaction.

Timmy sneered Russell's way.

"You write about your period? That bitch in gym class, how she stole your scrunchy?"

Timmy hissed through his teeth, retaining further commentary.

"How all the boys in school don't like you? Don't worry, I'm sure Scotty's gonna ask you to prom."

With this Timmy left the booth, having had enough.

"Awh, Timmy, come on now, don't be like that! Forget Scotty, I'll save you a dance!"

* * *

 _[editor's note: the following are excerpts from the journals of ones Russell Dunbar and Timir Patel, circa 2009-2013]_

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Began work today with prestigious Dunbar Industries. Their hiring methods seem a tad peculiar, but then I've been warned that one can never tell with big wigs (the higher the man, the more eccentric...that certainly seems the case here). I'm working for one Mr. Russell Dunbar himself, son to Franklin Dunbar, CEO...he serves as Project Director, and as his assistant, this could mean good things for me. Wish me luck!

 **RUSSELL**

Ugh, this no more female assistants thing blows. On the upside I hired some new jerk today, think his name is Jimmy or Timmy or something, the good news is he's like a trained dog and he sounds like James Bond. He'd lick my shoes if I asked him to.

Ha! I love this guy!

(Note to self: see if Tommy will lick my shoes tomorrow.)

* * *

 **TIMMY**

The longer I'm in this city, a fully fledged resident if you will, the more enchanted I find myself with it. The sights, the sounds, the diversity of the people who call it home. Simran says I'll grow tired of it all, that I'm still on a high from landing such a prestigious new position.

Speaking of the new job, it certainly isn't what I expected. Despite Mr. Dunbar's insistence that we will begin training any day now, he seems quite persistent on sending me on rather remedial errands, and has begun having me accompany him on what are becoming regular bar crawls...what he deems "booty patrol"...

I'm brushing up my resume.

 **RUSSELL**

Timmy's hilarious. I dared him to touch this weird looking thing on the sidewalk for a fiver, I don't know what it was but it smelled and the best part is he ACTUALLY DID IT. Dude's hard up for cash or something.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Russell Dunbar is the most deplorable human being I have ever had the misfortunate of crossing paths with in my entire life. To think I have spent an entire three months under his employ is utterly inconceivable. It is outrageously incomprehensible that I have succeeded in forcing myself through so many put downs, racially insensitive remarks, ointment applications, and playing heel dog in seedy establishments. All for what?

In the end, what do I gain from any of this? A measly paycheck. I could get a better job at the snap of my fingers. He should be so lucky to have found someone who would crawl on hands and knees to do his bidding for such pittance in the hopes of mere scraps of recognition.

Promotion? Doubtful. At this rate I'd welcome termination.

He sent me a text message today. He wished me another happy monthiversary. And I was pleased grateful for the gesture.

Why keep doing this, Timmy?

Who in the bloody hell is this man?

 **RUSSELL**

I think this thing with Timmy might just work out. He's a pretty good kid...

Oh, and I met this chick tonight with the best knockers you ever saw in your life.

Wouldn't give me the time of day, but I was there with Tim. Starting to notice a pattern. He really throws off my groove.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Do you think, dear journal, that I have a tendency to set myself up for failure?

After the third or fourth month, I might have still had an out, but now? I am losing sight of shore. My therapist says I have a tendency to ramble, so allow me to state this as clearly and concisely as possible:

It has been one year to the day that Russell T. Dunbar hired me. I am still his assistant. I am trapped. Whoever finds these words upon this paper, years from now, please remember me well, for I went down fighting.

 **RUSSELL**

Would you believe that little number from accounting still won't budge? She'd working on the BUDGEt but she won't BUDGE for the old Russell Muscle, get it? GET IT?

Oh but it's me and Timmy's anniversarino so I've got plans tonight anyway.

Okay that sounded super gay that's my Q to end this thing.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I've ended my engagement to the fair Suneetha. She's gone home, no hearts broken, all perfectly agreeable. My father certainly seems unenthused with my decision, my mother moreso. "Timir," she always tells me, "you're going to die alone." Thank you for the vote of confidence.

I've let Mr. Dunbar's words get the best of me. He did convince me that I need to find someone on my own, a woman whom I truly love, who loves me in return. Ironic, coming from Mr. Flavour-of-the-Hour. Suneetha was beautiful and charming, we did enjoy one another's company, but we felt no spark. She wasn't the one.

 **RUSSELL**

Really thought she was the one. She was beautiful, that hair and that skin...maybe I've got a thing for Indian gals. Maybe I need to start narrowing the field a bit, eh?

Think I lost the only girl I'll ever really love. Then again, probably nothing a good lady-for-rent couldn't fix, am I right?!

Not really feeling it, tonight. Gonna hit the sack.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

My therapy sessions go a bit like this.

Me: I think I've finally figured out my boss.

Her: Oh, so you're playing psychoanalyst again?

We stare one another down for some time, she reads me like an open book. Of course I only started seeing this woman upon the realization that I could no longer deal with Mr. Dunbar's torments on my own. She called me out the first time I referenced him by his first name. The first time I said we'd gone somewhere together recreationally of my own free will. She doesn't miss these things.

Yesterday I told my therapist that I'd arrived at this conclusion: Somehow, inexplicably, he needs guidance. I'm not quite sure how it is that Russell has survived four decades counting, without someone being there to ensure he not strangle himself with his own two hands. He appears at once both childlike and lonesome. I've come to realize these things, and in my weakest moments they give way to forgiveness, perhaps kinship.

Then he calls me Squanto and I recall how much I loathe him.

 **RUSSELL**

Squanto's got his teepee in a bunch again about something, I don't know what. It's always something with that guy. I'll take him out for drinks tomorrow, he'll be fine.

It's weird though, we're in the diner the other day and I'm sitting there with Tim and the guys come in and I remember not so long ago when he wasn't here. There was a time before Timmy? I used to hang around with those bozos all the time. I mean I still do but now I'm usually with this bozo. When he's not with me, sometimes people ask where he is, like I'm supposed to know, like he's my kid or something?

Kind of starting to forget what that was like, when Timmy wasn't around. Weird.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Things are going remarkably well with the fair Allison. I believe we have a great amount in common, and she continues to be quite taken with the Timmy Shimmy.

Will report back, dear journal, but I'm a little busy these days...if you know what I mean.

 **RUSSELL**

Reminder to bring disinfectant to work. I knew Timmy had to lose his virginity eventually but all over the office?

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I'm a little drunk. Been drinking and brinking, thinking, helps ease the stings. Heartbreaks...

She says we're too far apart. I don't think she only means the miles. Since she moved away, I have tried to keep in touch, but she kept drifting... We are far apart.

And I sit in this city alone. Big city, small Timmy. I am so alone. Never going to find anyone.

There is so much love inside of me and nobody wants it.

 **RUSSELL**

Came back to the office and Timmy was there alone, stone cold wasted. Made sure he got home. Think his Chicago chick cut him loose or something. Never saw him so gone.

Kinda feel like I shouldn't have left him alone...kinda feel like I should go back and check on him but that's weird right?

He'll be fine I guess.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Had a lovely evening, somehow managed this despite my company being you-know-who. You know, sometimes I believe he might be halfway fixable. Perhaps this is why I bother spending any amount of time attempting to analyze his inner workings, so that I may save some future woman from his filthy clutches. Perhaps I'm a touch too altruistic for my own good.

He has terrible tastes, at any rate. We went to the theatre tonight. The third act completely restored the second, he has no idea at all what he's talking about, and the cast was nothing short of amazing.

 **RUSSELL**

Went and did a thing with Timmy, that was good. Took him to that new show in town, give it a 6/10, he thought I was pretty harsh but what the hell does he know? UGH that whole thing was totally phoned in, I could act better with my hands tied behind my back. BEHIND MY BACK, TIMMY.

PS. Why do you think they're called horny toads? Like, are they just good to go all the time, or what's up with that?

PPS. Timmy just texted about that stupid third act again, idiot, he has no idea what he's talking about.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Perhaps things are settling in with Liz and Russell's marriage...I don't know, that still doesn't look right on paper no matter how many times I write it out. However, he seems a tad less repulsed than upon their initial nuptials, and she seems to have settled him down a touch. We'll see what develops.

 **RUSSELL**

UGH I hate this woman. But I dunno man, I kinda don't? Weird.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I have had lips forced upon mine which can never be unforced.

I have seen things the likes of which I can never unsee.

I have been used as a sickly pawn in a game of cat and mouse. Oh! Should I never hear another word of that wretched woman and her cats again, and should I never come within an inch of Russell Dunbar's...anatomy for as long as I live.

IT WAS RIGHT THERE.

 **RUSSELL**

Liz tried to bone Timmy. We're getting a divorce. I really should know better by now.

Women, all the same, can't live with them, can't live without them, am I right?

Really thought I could do this. I tried. Nothing matters in the end. People find somebody else to care about, they get bored. It's all the same. Learned that score a long time ago.

But it's probably my fault. Thinking I don't want this same person crap all the time, gotta play the field right? Then I get with a woman and kind of warm up to the idea. Knowing someone's really there and cares. Somebody to come home to, who you know is gonna be there when the going gets tough, that sounds kind of nice.

Then your wife tries to screw your assistant. Same old story every time.

So if there's this soul mate thing people talk about I probably don't have one. Or I met her already and she's gone. Or she's under my nose and I keep missing her, NY is a big city. Maybe she's halfway around the world, mystery woman doesn't speak any english. Just my luck.

This is easier. Bachelor thing. Get more tail this way.

PS. Timmy's still upset he saw my dick.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

It's not that I despise the new intern at work, it's just that he shows a distinct lack of work ethic, refuses to follow basic direction, and is making Russell more obnoxious than usual.

Also he has annoying hair. And what kind of name is Topher? Topher. Gopher. I'm going to begin calling him that behind his back. Arrogant little brat.

I hate him.

 **RUSSELL**

Love this new kid, Topher. He knows all the cool joints. Cool kid. Timmy hates him, so you know he's cool. That's gotta be some kinda measurement, right?

The more Timmy hates something, the cooler it is. Ha, that's how you know I'm AWESOME! LOL.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I FIRED HIM. I was the one to do it. You should have seen the smug look on his sniveling little face! If they call for references I am going to laugh in their faces and slam the phone down, it will be orgasmic!

 **RUSSELL**

Tim's a little excited to be rid of that Topher kid. I know he was a douche, but.

Jeff and Adam were telling me how Timmy was acting weird, trying to get everybody to hang out with him. Like he missed having me around or something.

Okay so don't tell anybody this but he's a lot cooler than Topher. That guy was an idiot. I mean if we can call Timmy cool. He's a lot more...something than that nozzle was.

I feel better when I'm around him. I feel like

 _[editor's note: text cuts off abruptly]_

* * *

 **TIMMY**

My therapist reiterates regularly that these pages are meant for honesty. All right. I've recognized a fact in my relationship with Russell. Specifically, a fact about myself and our relationship.

I'd like very much to stop referring to what we have as a 'relationship' but I don't know what else to call it and in this moment I can't stop to psychoanalyze why this word is making me so uncomfortable, so I shall proceed with the original train of thought.

It would appear that, naturally, one Russell Dunbar has a tendency to create disturbances in my world. In short: he screws up my life. He will do the most deplorable of things. Mere days ago the man accused me of SEXUAL HARASSMENT. I was forced to sit in a room with him and debate the charges, absolutely humiliating, all for the sake of a woman he wished to bed. I might have been able to transfer to a new position for all of this and what did I do?! WHAT DID I DO?!

I accepted his apology and WE HAD DINNER. TOGETHER. And I STILL WORK FOR HIM. Mind you I now realize that I stood up the young woman in question, the one he wished to steal away as his own. The one neither of us ended up seeing at all. I stood up this woman for RUSSELL FREAKING DUNBAR, who had trapped me in a small room, having just accused me of sexual harassment!

Dear journal, am I a madman? Because this is not the first time I have forgiven him so easily, but I must, I MUST insist on it being the last.

And as we are being honest, chances are it won't be, and now my goal is to determine why this is the case. There are so many better jobs in this city. There are so many better bosses, better friends, better people. Yet, here we are.

 **RUSSELL**

Been on more dates with Timmy lately than with chicks. Gotta get my game back. He's a good hang, but feel like we're giving off a vibe if you catch my drift.

He tried to quit again. Geez. He settled for dinner. Ha, would have given him a raise and everything if I had to, he's so easy.

Tried to pick up a couple honeys last night, I wasn't really feeling it but think Tim was kind of disappointed that this one chick didn't go for him. Don't know what was wrong with her, he was pretty put together, looked good last night, I'd have taken him home. I mean, she looked good, they'd have looked good together. I mean you know what I mean. Fuck.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I must admit despite the fact our rousing rendition of To Be With You was quite exhilarating, upon reflection I've realized the entire scene was all a set-up and Russell was to blame for my near humiliation.

I thought I would be bedding a woman who has now decided I am in a homosexual relationship with my boss. And I'm somehow less upset about this than one would automatically assume.

How many times have people taken him for my gay lover? It's become second nature to shoot down the allegations. It's become second nature to ignore them. But last night we left together, Russell and I, and she left without me. The whole song had been for her.

Something is amiss.

 **RUSSELL**

Yeah that didn't go as planned. I set him up for failure and then something clicked and it was like...I had to save Timmy from myself. It's usually funny when I screw with him. Getting less funny.

I keep feeling things. I shut it down and it comes back at all the wrong times. I don't like feelings things. Everybody's always talking about FEELINGSSSS all the time.

He kind of drank a lot after we sang that stupid song. We both did, we had a good time. He brought me home, like he thinks it's his job to take care of me. Guess it kind of is. Just hope he got home safe and stuff.

I think I wanted him to stay.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Russell Dunbar appears to be harboring some sort of repressed desires for me.

This is a problem.

At first I was unquestionably disturbed by this fact, by the woman he had shaped to resemble me, by his unwillingness to accept this very fact, to come to terms with his own games.

But what I've come to find, worse yet, is that I've grown less disturbed the longer I ponder on these revelations.

This. This is a bigger problem.

Oh Timmy. Oh, Timmy, you've made a grand mess of things.

 **RUSSELL**

Radha broke up with me... I may or may not have yelled out the wrong name during sex? I don't even remember whose name I yelled out but she was super pissed, it was a whole thing...

I mean, geez women blow everything out of proportion you know what I mean it's ridick.

Plus she seemed super obsessed with Timmy or something...

 _[editor's note: Russell wrote something here. He scribbled it out hard and dark.]_

Yeah I don't know what her problem was.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Honesty. What is honesty? If I am to be truly honest with myself, if I am to truly face what is happening, then so should he have to face what is truly happening. And he has refused. I tried to speak with him about Radha. About feeling me up in the office, about the repercussions of this event, and he twisted reality. As always. So, bluntly, to hell with honesty.

To think I have wasted a solitary second of my life pondering any of this should be a source of shame.

 **RUSSELL**

I keep feeling weird things and I want it to stop

but I don't want it to stop

what the hell is going on

damn it I think this has been happening for a long time

GET A GRIP RUSSELL

* * *

 **RUSSELL**

I can't stop thinking about him. More than usual. I called him but he didn't answer. What if one of these days I need him and he's just not there? He's always there. He can't just not be there.

If you really care about somebody, they should want you to know where they are all the time, right? That makes sense. I have to do something.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Strange day at the office, feeling rather unsettled...there seemed something a tad off. Probably just the flu shot though, always a bit feverish afterwards.

Received a letter from mother, lovely surprise, then tea and a bit of light reading. Normal evening at home. They say I'm boring, but I do enjoy pleasant quiet nights such as tonight. Heaven knows I've earned a few.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I have finally done it. Russell Dunbar has finally crossed that line in the sand, the one I thought he had crossed so many times before which I kept drawing out just a smidgen further. Well, no more. I am done.

I am not a pet to be chipped and tracked, I am not a dog, he has no ownership over me! The audacity in his claims, that he might not know what he'd do if I was gone. That such actions might come from anywhere other than a place of selfishness and entitlement? Well, I am gone. Good riddance. I can say with no further sense of uncertainty that I am done.

I have left him for good, dear journal.

I feel free. I feel as though I can finally begin a new chapter in the life of Timmy Patel.

THIS IS A NEW DAY.

 **RUSSELL**

So I'm seeing this chick who's missing a toe. And I'm thinking, I once knew this other chick who had an extra toe, and what if they got them both together, could they not just take the toe off the one and put it on the other and then both of them would be totes normal and everybody would be happy? Like, has nobody ever thought of doing that? Also how is it that I keep meeting these weird toe chicks? I should write a book or something.

Oh and Timmy quit, I guess. So there's that.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

My new job is wonderful.

I love my new job.

Respectable wage, compliments instead of put-downs, room for advancement which looks to be immanent.

I could not be happier.

I tried to delete his number again today.

My god I am so dreadfully lonely.

 **RUSSELL**

I need him back.

I want him back.

I want him.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Don't call him, Timmy. You are a strong man, an interesting man of character. This is a rich, interesting city, full of rich, interesting people! Try the singles scene, online dating! Your neighbors seem nice, save for the fellow who stays up all night shouting about whores.

DO NOT CALL RUSSELL DUNBAR.

 **RUSSELL**

I went past his block tonight, wanted to stop, wanted to go in. Like what's he gonna do, let me in? Think I need to get really wasted, find some girl, and pretend I never met this guy. Except every girl I look at looks like Timmy. Timmy with boobs. Then they talk and they all have the funny voice and I can't stand it anymore.

Like he'd have let me into his apartment anyway.

Like he'd have let me touch him.

Fuck I want to touch him so bad.

 **TIMMY**

Why do you even want to call him?

What would you even say to him?

 **RUSSELL**

I still have that stupid thing of his at work. Sweater thing. He called and asked about it once, I lied. I shoved it under the desk, sometimes I lock the door and it's like he's still there. Smells like him.

This isn't right this isn't how it's supposed to go I'm not supposed to want this why do I want this?

I wanna hear that stupid voice. Damn it his voice is so annoying. I wish he'd call again.

 **TIMMY**

I won't call.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

Fuck Russell Dunbar.

 **RUSSELL**

Those idiots are having a baby soon. Those other idiots are getting married soon.

Something about Timmy's work Visa, I'm sure he'll hammer that out...

Like I'm gonna hammer one out with those nurses at the hospital, am I right?

Yeah...you know it.

 **TIMMY**

Fuck Russell Fuck Russell Fuck Russell FUCK RUSSELL FUCK RUSSELL ...

 _[editor's note: uncharacteristically, this went on for some time...an entire page, at least...it was unquestionably the most F-bombs Timmy Patel had ever committed to paper]_

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I'm not being deported. Probably. Maybe. I don't know what's happening.

I've gotten married. I think. It all happened rather fast.

And then Russell

 _[editor's note: entry cuts off abruptly there]_

 **RUSSELL**

Married Timmy yesterday. I got drunk.

Think I scared him off...think I said too much. Said the word. L word. Can't even write it down, how did I say it last night? Drunk I was drunk...hungover now.

He hates my guts.

At least he's not leaving right?

Okay gonna go barf now, not drunk barfing, that kind you do when you know you're the biggest fuck up in the world so you just blow chunks, yeah that kind.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

no no no this is not happening

why is this happening

Why do I want it to keep happening?

I have felt lust before, naturally, but this is an indescribable sort of sensation. I am at once both intrigued and I hesitate to say repulsed, there is no true repulsion here now that I have given in, which I find increasingly shocking. (Succumbing to curiosity somehow cured whatever reservations my stomach held.) No I am...hesitant. As if there is a taboo element to what we are embarking on, but I'm coming to a conclusion that I do not wish to arrive at. I am resisting this conclusion. That this isn't sudden at all.

This has been escalating into something inescapable.

How long have I truly wanted this? Damn it all.

 **RUSSELL**

Holy shit he kissed me today. HE kissed ME. What? WHAT?

I think he's coming over soon to fool around. Unless he chickens out, he could still do that.

I sound like some idiot teenage girl or something. Not like I know what that sounds like, what's that like? "Eeeh! My crush is coming over, I have to look nice!"

Shit, do I look okay? He's seen me look worse, right? This sounds crazy, what am I even talking about?

Damn it, he's here. Am I supposed to open the door? What do I do? Why am I asking you, you're a piece of paper. Okay, play this cool. He's just gonna come in, you'll kiss a little maybe you'll suck his dick, play it cool Russell.

OH MY GOD YOU WROTE THAT? ANSWER THE DOOR YOU MORON!

* * *

 **TIMMY**

I have now been touched in ways that I believed this man incapable of touching another human being. And I have touched him back without hesitation. To say I am confused would be an understatement. To say my world has been uprooted and is now rushing madly through a whirlwind of unpredictability, yes, that would be more to the point.

I believe I am in love with Russell Dunbar. I believe these words now feel safe, but still quite foreign and dreadfully sudden.

He's my husband, and I have consummated the marriage. Heaven help me.

 **RUSSELL**

I thought I knew what love was, I thought I'd dipped toes in that stuff, but holy shit if I'm in love right now then I've never been in love before cuz this is crazy.

Maybe it's because when he touches me, when he looks at me for a long time it feels like he means it. Kind of took a lot to get him here but I'm not letting him go. Like he can kick and scream and stuff but I'm tying him to the bed he's not going anywhere (maybe he's kinky maybe he's into that?).

He's sexy as hell, he can tie me to the bed if he wants. Ah damn it, I've gotta go make a call.

* * *

 **TIMMY**

This is comfortable. For once I feel at peace with something in my life that has never felt quite right. A natural apprehension that comes with such a sudden shift, but relief at having let the dam burst, as it were.

Perhaps this has been the answer all along. When all this time, I've been trying to get away from this element of my reality, all it took was succumbing to it. Succumbing to him.

Now that we are living transparently, there feels a completion to this step in this journey of ours. We've come a long way, dear journal, and I'm not sure where we're going, and I'm quite terrified but at last I understand the previous few years of my life. They've led me here, to this place.

I don't have all the answers. All I truly know is that a very flawed, but very real human being seems to genuinely love me, and I've decided to love this human back. I do, I love him.

That's a good enough place to start.

 **RUSSELL**

Woke up this morning and he wasn't in bed with me. Feel like he should be here all the time, now... ?

But he already texted today to say he loves me. Crazy how much he's saying it now, like he's trying to catch up to how many times he's said he hates me or something. Dude that's nuts can you imagine a year ago, Timmy texting "I love you" WTF man this is WEIRD.

I'm not used to being happy. Don't let that get around, stupid book. Like I'm not sure what happy feels like it's not in the normal Russell Dunbar rotation of emotions.

But yeah, Timmy Patel telling me he loves me...

I think this is what happy feels like. :)

xx


	11. K is for Kiss

**K is for Kiss**

"Ah, come on. It...it's pandering, it's stupid!"

"I think it's quite lovely," said Timmy, raising a hand to the large screen above the field. The camera had started scanning the crowd for couples who smiled and squealed and locked lips for the amusement of screaming viewers. "If not a bit saccharin."

"Barf central. Ahh, god, they have to add the little flickering hearts in the corner."

"Bitter at the fact that you're here with me instead of a woman? Wishing perhaps anybody would be willing to kiss you in front of so many witnesses?"

"And they zoom in right at the point of impact, like we can't see that they're...wait...wait, is that two chicks...?! Duuuude..."

Timmy slapped a knee in frustration. "You're unbelievable."

"Why do I bring you to these games?" Russell leaned back, crossing his arms. "Nag, nag, nag."

"Better question. Why do I pay for the tickets?"

" _You_ sprung for season passes!"

"You insisted I buy the passes, you garnished my wages!"

Russell's demeanor shifted all at once, turning casually Timmy's direction. "You feeling hot dogs? I could really go for hot dogs."

"No, I don't want any hot do-" Timmy felt a tap land on his shoulder from a neighboring seat. He looked to the woman sitting there, who pointed past him; and his eyes fell upon where she was pointing. He fell full of shock and terror. "Oh. Oh...no..."

"Well, we could get pretzels instead, or popcorn...you like Cracker Jack, yeah?"

Timmy grasped Russell's head, forcing his eyes in the direction of the Kiss Cam. And there were both of their faces, plain as day, locked stunned upon the screen. What were they doing up there? How could they possibly be there?

The neighbor who had tapped Timmy moments before now smacked him in the back, urging excitedly, "Kiss!"

"Oh...no," spoke Timmy. "There's been a mistake, we're not-"

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" The chant of several neighboring voices, building to a crescendo.

Timmy found, then, his hands were still glued to Russell's head. Their eyes pulled from the screen, locking together, imploring one another for answers. And Timmy pulled his hands from Russell, wiping them off on his shirt. It felt as if the last few seconds had lasted several minutes, and still the camera sought their embrace. _Seriously?! Just move on, already!_

Well, Timmy assured himself, they could wait this out, the cameraman would realize his mistake and move off of them at any moment, it would all be over soon enough, and-

That's when it happened. Russell's lips fell flush upon Timmy's cheek, quickly, warm and soft and without a touch more warning, and then it was all over. Timmy looked first to the screen, having moved past them. Then, slowly, cautiously, his eyes shifted towards his boss, now having sunk back into his seat, staring straight forward with very large eyes, body frozen in place.

A small voice from somewhere in the crowd assured the men: "That was weak," and Timmy, finding the proclamation somehow quite contrary to reality, could not quite bring himself to pull his gaze from Russell. Then another voice somewhere, not to be outdone: "Gay...!"

At this, Russell faltered in his stoic stance, clearing his throat, glancing briefly towards Timmy. "Wanted to get rid of the camera, huh?"

"Well, yes...but..."

"Gave 'em what they wanted." Several more seconds of uncomfortable eye contact was broken by the roar of a crowd. Distractions. Hm, what? What had happened? "Sure you don't want a hot dog?"

Timmy nodded slowly. "Yes, I...hot dog. Okay."


	12. L is for Love

**L is for Love**

Timmy had made a grave mistake, although he never could have predicted the outcome of such an innocent proposition. He'd gone on vacation.

Now normally, this wouldn't have been a problem. Leave work for awhile, breath of fresh air, see the sights of a new city, get away from...him.

However, something rather strange had taken place, it seemed, in his absence.

The replacement. The girl, the doppelgänger, molded slowly more and more to resemble Timmy until at last it had become perfectly clear to everyone just what exactly had happened.

Clear to everyone, that is, except for Russell. The very person who had done it. Timmy had watched the man walk about with his female counterpart attached at the hip, an eerie sight to be sure, his employer ever oblivious to the underlying implications at hand.

Until at last Russell mistook him for the woman, laying hands upon him, telling him he wanted him. Both men rejected the notion quite clearly upon the revelation of his identity.

But reflection had begged the question in Timmy's gut...was the denial so much one of earnest disapproval, a case of mistaken identity...or shock at having revealed a secret desire?

Terribly foolish thought, he shouldn't think such things, horribly foolish.

But undeniable.

Timmy took these thoughts to his therapist, knowing the truth. A woman well-versed in the woes that were his life with, he begged her guidance: "What do I say to him? Please, I need help."

In turn she was asked a question, unexpected, uninvited: "How do you feel about Russell?"

His gut instinct was to say he despised the man! An obvious reply to a stupid question!

A bit more prompting found him mellowed. Ahh, she posed, but why devote so much of his life to someone he hated? And there it came...she asked the question that changed everything. "Do you love Russell?"

Well, damn it all.

He'd left the session shaken, tense, unable to process the words. He'd gone home. He hadn't slept properly.

Nothing made any sense, suddenly.

* * *

Late that evening, Timmy pulled a piece of paper from his desk at home. He wasn't sure what he was doing...an experiment, a thought process. He had to be sure.

His hand had barely moved upon the paper, dragging shaking lines as he wrote the words he dared not speak.

He tossed the pen to paper, frustrated yell in dimmed room, and willed his mouth to move.

He spoke very softly. "I...love..."

He stood, kicking his desk in frustration. "Damn it!" Then, directing words towards his boss, too far away to ever hear: "DAMN YOU! I'll never say it, do you hear me?! It's insane! This is insane!"

It seemed he had paced the room for several minutes, growing more and more frantic, heart racing ever faster until at last he roared: "Nnng, damn it all!"

In anger he snatched the pen atop his desk, in fury he scrawled fast words upon paper with hard hands, and flung the pen to the floor in an attempt to rid himself of the words trapped in his head. And he stood back, breath hard and heavy and confused.

When at last he took small steps back towards the desk, practically frightened of what he would find, he picked up the paper. He read the message silently, blinking the letters rapidly away...

 _'I love Russell Dunbar.'_

No. He couldn't have written it. Writing it made it true, it made it-

"I love him."

What?! No, don't _say_ it!

"I...love..." He couldn't bring himself to say the name. It felt utterly foolish in his mouth. "As...a friend, surely. A...companion? A trusted...no, not trusted, that's a step too far, as, uhm..."

Come on, Timmy, it's like a puzzle, put it all together. One step at a time. "Russell." That a boy. "I... Russell... L-lllll..."

Back to the paper.

He wrote it again. Slowly this time, deliberately, with tempered, even strokes...

 _'I love Russell.'_ And again. _'I love Russell.'_ Again. _'I love Russell.'_

 _'I love you, Russell.'_

WAIT. That was different. That felt very much a direct confession, as if he intended on _telling_ someone something, what on earth was he doing?!

 _'I love you, Russell Dunbar.'_

NO, DON'T DO IT AGAIN.

That's where the experiment ended. Timmy abandoned pen to desk, running heavy hands against his face. He couldn't let whatever was happening keep on happening.

It was all too much.

He picked up the paper, examining his wall of scribbles, the name written over and over for the world to see. He thought about tearing it apart, of burning the evidence. So whatever compelled Timmy Patel to cleanly fold this piece of paper into a fine square, to tuck it neatly away for safe keeping was as good as anybody's guess.

* * *

Russell had been late to work, as usual. Timmy was quite overworked, as usual, and willed his brain to concentrate on his job. But he was distracted, and not pleasantly so.

Timmy, foolishly, had attempted to discuss the incident with Russell. It wasn't every day that Russell had built a doppelgänger of a woman in his stead and had thereby mistakenly come onto him in the middle of the office; perhaps this justified a moment of reflection, aaaand no. Russell had reversed the blame somehow, had denied what was happening entirely.

No big surprise, there. Timmy really hadn't known what to do about any of it, anyway. What was he to do with this kind of information? 'Oh, you mean to say you WANTED to feel me up in the middle of the office? Well, yes, by all means, go right ahead.'

Insanity. In a million years, he'd never...he would...never...

Timmy pulled a piece of paper from a pocket. Why had he brought it here? Why? What good was he doing, dragging it around to work?

Perhaps his mind believed his heart would do its job, if he could only see the man.

He'd been scribbling the same words over and over since the night before, whenever his brain willed his hand to speak, to purge them from his system. He needed to do so now.

He unfolded the paper at lightning speed atop his desk. Paper filled, nearly flooded with the message, and he wrote quickly, heart beating, brow building to a sweat: _'I love you, Russell Dunbar'_...

And his head fell against the desk with a light groan.

And Russell's door opened.

Timmy scrambled, breathing heavily, paper crumpling beneath his hand; it curled, finding its way into a ball as Russell found his way towards Timmy.

They were both out of sorts today; Russell's voice emerging rather shallow. "Got that thing."

"What thing was that?"

"Thing from the guy."

"Yes, that narrows it down."

"Guy that's been riding me for the past month, the one with the overbite who's married to the chick who's way too hot for him. You know the guy...works in records, now..."

"Oh, Jenkins."

"Jenkins! See, this is why I need you, I just call him..."

"The guy with the overbite, yes."

"Yeah, so...I'm gonna forward you the thing." Russell tapped against Timmy's desk, forcing a small smile.

"Yes, very well."

As Russell faded back into his office, Timmy breathed his great relief. And then took a deep breath of confusion. Nothing in this exchange should have filled him with a sense of comfort, a slight warmth. And yet there had been no snide remarks hurled towards him, he had been neither demeaned nor insulted.

Timmy assured himself that a lack of abuse should not be an admirable quality in anyone. He knew, of course, that despite the accuracy of the claim, he was covering for something deeper.

He liked the man, and he always had. And feelings aren't so much a valve to be stopped and started as one pleases; no. These feelings had etched something deeply in his brain, like river through rock. And the stream was growing wider.

Timmy held the crumpled paper in his hand, fist clenched taught. He could no longer will himself to look at the words, and so he crushed the paper to a ball. He placed it in the trash receptacle to his side, done with it. Never wanting to see it again.

Timmy stood from his desk, and in desperation, walked straight from the room. He needed to think. He couldn't do it here.

"Hey, Tim...?" Russell's door opened, right on cue. "Turns out I don't have the thing, Overbite sent it to you. Says he trusts /you/ over me, can you believe that? Like, you're the biggest screw-up in this place, why would Jerkins...?"

Russell finally shut up long enough to notice Timmy's absence.

"Ah, c'mon, gotta do everything around here..."

He made his way behind Timmy's desk, gaining access to his computer, seeking an email. He found it almost too quickly, forwarding the file to himself...well, that was boring. What else could he do for fun?

"Wonder where he keeps his porn..." A quick click around revealed nothing of interest. Most boring, most work-y computer ever. Russell's eyes sought anything of interest around the peripheral of Timmy's desk.

Same old crap. Pictures of family, cultural jib-jab. Kind of interesting, but he didn't really understand any of it...he fingered a small figure carefully, something Indian looking...that's the most he knew and the best he could piece together, and he'd probably mock Timmy later for it.

Perhaps such mockery came from a place of insecurity; be it far easier on an ego to appear crass and cruel than to admit to being lonely in one's foolishness.

There are certain types who would rather be hated than face rejection. It would seem Russell Dunbar was just such a type, even if he didn't know it.

But there are those who can see through such charades.

Russell forewent examining Timmy's desk further, standing with a grunt. Nothing of interest anyway; he just had to go and hire the world's most boring assistant to spy on.

And then something caught his eye. It was probably nothing, but unbeknownst to Timmy, Russell was not above rummaging through trash in search of secrets. He seldom found anything juicy, but maybe...

By the time Timmy had walked back into the office, Russell had undone the mess of paper; he stood now, reading his own name over and over, scrawled in familiar handwriting. His face panged in cryptic curiosity as Timmy stood stone cold several feet away...mortified...panicked, but trying not to let it show.

What now?

Timmy's voice dared to speak, barely above a whisper. "Sir..."

"Get a load of that, huh?" Russell turned the paper around for Timmy, as if it was news to both of them. And the men met eyes, conveying information neither could truly comprehend.

Timmy was the first to break eye contact, working up the will to speak.

Russell beat him to the punch. "Crazy," he said with a chuckle. "Some chick walking all the way over here with some uh, hand written confession? Looks like she chickened out though."

Their eyes met again. 'Is this what we're going with?' they consulted silently. They came to an agreement.

"Yes, most curious," said Timmy.

"Didn't see her?" asked Russell.

"No, funny thing," said Timmy. "I'll be sure and send the mystery woman your way should she make another appearance."

"Good deal, bet she's a real looker. And clearly _obsessed_ with me, so... Oh, hey, guy emailed you that thing. Whipped it over to myself, we're good to go."

"Oh, excellent, I'll have a look."

"Great. Grabbing lunch in a few, if you, uh..."

"I might, I'll let you know."

"Okay."

And so, Russell retreated to his office, paper in hand.

And so, Timmy retreated to his desk, unsure if the feeling presently overtaking him was morbid relief, or a desire to be dead.

Russell sat at his desk now, behind a solid door, alone. With bated breath he sat, locked away from the world, staring at a mystery.

Though he saw them, clear as day, he was puzzled in the words upon the paper, scarcely making sense of them. They blurred against eyes that never truly let him see the truth, and yet for just a moment now his brain scrambled, reaching for a pen.

He read the words emblazoned there, the words that forced nerves afire...

 _'I love you, Russell Dunbar.'_

It was all he really wanted. He knew this now, there was no more rejecting it, and in that moment something compelled him to believe, to accept the unacceptable...that he might not be the only one holding such desires.

And in fine ink, with steady hand, Russell Dunbar placed permanence to paper:

 _'I love you too, Timmy Patel.'_

He studied the declarations carefully, for a moment believing in something. For just a moment, a fleeting heartbeat's worth of time, feeling peace and warmth and love.

Maybe this was real. Maybe this was really happening.

No.

Denial moved the hands of Russell Dunbar; a paper shredder took the evidence, devouring silent confessions that may never come again.

And Timmy Patel sat at his desk, wide-eyed, lost in trepidation, wondering what love felt like.

...Love felt like hearts through a paper shredder.


	13. M is for Melt

**M is for Melt**

Hot today. A slow, hot walk down a slow, hot sidewalk left Russell drained and defeated, ready for home. But not yet. He felt overdressed in a long-sleeved button-down and had considered removing a layer in plain view of the entire city, when he turned around to find Timmy, slightly annoyed that his assistant had had enough common sense to come out in a short-sleeved shirt.

Naturally, he wasn't his assistant today. No paycheck, no time clock. Funny how they were reluctant to admit to these little off-the-clock get togethers. Funny how everybody was aware of them.

When Timmy turned off course, Russell's feet obliged.

"Stopping, why?"

"Ice cream stand. Charming enough. Certainly hot enough, what do you say? I'll pay."

"You'll pay with my money? Sounds good."

Timmy rolled eyes with a sigh; he might have given rise to snark had Russell not pushed before him, ordering ice cream for the two of them, paying with his own money.

He came back with two cones, offering up a wink and a nod. "Little chocolate/vanilla action. Kinda like us, right?"

Timmy took a cone; he rose a brow, choosing to overlook the homoerotic overtones of the remark. "Mm. Yes." It appeared Russell was quite distracted, at any rate, by a shapely figure just near them. Sucking on a popsicle. Of course, what could be more cliche?

"Sir, you're likely to take somebody out with one of the eyes popping from your skull, shall we leave the poor woman to enjoy herself in peace?"

"Get a load, Tim..."

"I see her. Lovely woman, I'm sure she has a sparkling personality."

"Come on, tell me you're not imagining that popsicle's your-"

"No! No, I'm certainly not, nor should..." Timmy snatched Russell by a shoulder, forcing him to face him. "Nor should you. Now eat your own ice cream before it melts, and leave innocent women to remain unsullied by the likes of your eyes."

Russell took a large amount of ice cream against his tongue in annoyance, speaking with a full mouth. "Whatever."

That's when he first spotted it. Melting very slowly onto Timmy's hand, unnoticed in the midst of his tirade. White and creamy and dripping...

"Whatever." Timmy sighed. "Of course."

Russell was fixated on the ice cream streaking Timmy's hand. It didn't...look...quite right. He felt compelled somehow to react to it, to take action now as it made a line down the length...the length of Timmy's arm.

"...Sir?"

Sticky white sugar, melting down against warm, unforgiving...soft skin.

"...Okay, he's gone someplace. Still imagining the woman, are we? You'll be sorry to hear she's left."

Russell watched the slow line of dripping sweet temptation lost to flesh, meeting now with the faintest glistening beads of sweat, pulled forth from the heat of a cruel sun. Sugar and salt mixed together in a-

 _Lick him, Russell._

"Hellooo?"

 _Nnnng, lick his arm, suck his fingers, lick it lick it lick it...!_

"Sir, what are you...?"

"ICE CREAM, on your arm, get the damn..." Russell turned a sharp circle, gnashing teeth sharply.

"Oh."

Russell turned back around to find Timmy drawing a slow tongue against his own arm; he turned back around with a low hum.

 _Ahhh, fuck..._

"Things are certainly heating up," said Timmy.

"Yeah," said Russell. "Heating...up. You know what, I'm gonna just...snatch a cab..."

"Weren't we going to...?"

"You go on ahead, I'm just..." Russell let off a slow whistle. "Cab." And he abandoned Timmy to his ice cream, ever daring to drip slowly back down his hand and the length of his arm. "Nnng..."

"Oh...uhm...all right, very...very well."

Timmy carried on eating ice cream alone. Confused.

By the time Russell found a cab, he had done a fine job of easing himself back down. Just a bit of mental gymnastics.

Heh, that popsicle chick had sure given him one hell of a boner.


	14. N is for Nihilism

**N is for Nihilism**

"Why do you do it, sir?"

They'd been seated at the bar for an hour, Russell surveying the prospects in the room. He'd struck out twice, pulled one number but no big score yet. Just waiting for that golden opportunity...

"Why do I do what?"

"Pardon if I come across a tad presumptuous, but...I've been a month under your employ and I've noticed that you seem to be lacking in any hobbies that one might find...genuinely enriching."

"You don't feel enriched right now? Come on, Tim, plenty of honeys in here for both of us, I'm not greedy."

"I don't want any...honeys, sir."

Russell chuckled. "You keep saying you're not gay, but you keep proving yourself wrong, my man."

Timmy sighed very gently, attempting to keep up appearances. "Sir, I'm just wondering if there isn't...isn't some greater purpose to your life than happy hours and younger women. Again, of course, Mr. Dunbar, I mean no-"

"Timmy, you have a lot to learn." Russell supplied Timmy a firm slap to the back. "And as your mentor, I feel it's my job to show you the ropes. You're gonna get eaten out there alive, kid, so listen up."

Timmy grew more agitated with his employer by the day. Yet ever more intrigued.

"Mr. Dunbar..."

"Let's get you another drink, let me explain some things to you."

This would seem a rather unusual work arrangement.

"Timmy..." Russell held up a glass of alcohol, swirling it slowly in examination. "At the end of the day, what is life?"

Timmy expected further commentary. Finding a lull in Russell's dialogue, he realized he was meant to answer. "Oh, uhm...life. Well, that's...a rather deeply philosophical question. There are many schools of thought on the subject, it's not so easy as-"

"Meaningless. Life is meaningless."

Timmy quaked lightly at the flippant nature of the response, but found himself intrigued as Russell carried on.

"See, people are gonna lay this whole thing on ya about finding your purpose in the world, right? Wrong. It's all meaningless, man. You go out there, they eat you alive. You try to care about people?" He shook his head. "Throw you away. None of it means anything. So do what you want, when you want. That's my philosophy."

Timmy blinked away a touch of shock. "Oh. Uhm. I see, well...that's...a rather negative world view. Not particularly one I care to live in, so. You'll forgive me, sir, if I choose to believe there's a bit more to life."

"Like what?"

"Like..." Timmy examined the drink in front of him. "Like sharing a drink with friends. You find no meaning in that interaction?"

"Mm." Russell shrugged a shoulder.

"When...when a mother holds her newborn child, can you look me in the eye and tell me such an exchange holds no true meaning?"

"Reproduction, human nature. I mean look around, check it out, everyone's after a piece."

"But surely when you think of your own parents, your own family..." Timmy watched as Russell took a markedly large swallow of alcohol, somehow standing as an answer.

How could he break such a seemingly embittered man? Russell spent so much time on frivolities and joking, he appeared a juvenile fool; to realize it was on some level a cover for some deeper pain placed a knot in the pit of Timmy's stomach.

The worst part was that he cared at all for the well being of such an irritating man. Timmy wished sometimes that he could turn off the parts of himself that cared so much.

"Sir. This conversation, right now. This is meaningful."

Russell looked to Timmy, brow raising slightly.

"We're learning about one another, we're connecting as human beings. And in the end, isn't that what life is all about, sir? Just...human beings, finding one another?"

Russell looked away, mind processing; pulling his drink slowly towards his mouth...not quite getting close enough to drink.

"Now, in your world, that might mean cheap, one night stands with strangers who pass in the night. Now, certainly, sir, those are human connections. But so is this, just you and I talking. Sharing a drink, discussing philosophy, life, the deeper things, things that...dare I say, things that matter. Perhaps we'll continue this discussion as time goes on, perhaps we'll both grow from it, expand our perspectives."

Russell's lips found his drink, taking the smallest of sips, though he still appeared ever lost in thought.

"Mind you, it's all quite objective, what matters to an individual. But, sir...if it's of any comfort, please know that I find value in this moment with you."

Russell side-eyed Timmy from over his glass. When he stopped drinking, turning to look Timmy straight on, there followed a great deal of staring. Contemplating.

This guy made him feel things. Weird things. Things he didn't understand, or things he didn't want to understand.

"You, uh...value our time together?"

"Certainly, sir." No hesitation from Timmy; a warm smile, an attempt to melt a cold heart.

"You sure you're not gay?"

Timmy's face pulled into an exasperated sneer as he turned for his own drink, taking a swift swig.

He had tried. He would learn better, he told himself.


	15. O is for Omnipotent

**O is for Omnipotent**

Russell led a slender, bespectacled woman equipped with medical bag and a friendly smile towards his office door. "Just right in there, Chloe, thanks so much."

He watched her enter the room...and a moment later storm straight back out, closing the door firmly behind her.

"You said you had a dog!" She spoke in hushed tone, but firm and reprimanding, forcing Russell to shrink back just a little. He'd seen this coming, but still was unprepared. He hadn't planned as efficiently as he normally would have, he'd rushed...he'd panicked. "Russell!"

He struggled in responding. "Wellll..."

"That is not a dog in there, that is a man, now I want answers, and I want them fast!"

"Aaand...answers are what I intent to give you. Just one second, I have the perfect answer. Buh-buh-buh..." What's that answer he'd come up with, what was...

"I don't put tracking chips in people, Russell. Dogs and cats. Did a bunny, once. Who's that guy in there, is he hiding a bunny?"

GOT IT. "Well, now, see...Chloe, my assistant wants the chip. When he found out I was dating a veterinary technician, pft! He wouldn't shut up about it. Can you believe he kept nagging me?"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Timmy...well, he's a little different. He's quirky. I don't question his methods as an assistant, not anymore. He insists on calling me every hour on the hour, he insisted on the tracking software on his phone, but that just wasn't enough for him. The guy's obsessed with me, Chloe."

"Then maybe the guy needs a doctor, Russell. Somebody like that, maybe you need a restraining order."

"Well, now, I thought about that...but he's a good assistant, he does a good job. If I keep him here, he doesn't go anywhere else, I can keep the crazy...contained, so to speak. Who's he hurting...really? So, listen. You go in there, you put a liiittle chip in Timmy's liiitle arm...he feels a little safer, he feels like I'm with him all the time."

She hesitated; she was thinking. Ahh, it was working! "I dunno, this all sounds a little sick..."

"Sick, or...kind of endearing, huh?"

"What...?"

"Of course, there are liabilities, but we...we fixed that all up in legal, drew up a contract. We both signed it, this is strictly on the up and up, you...you wanna see it?" Russell began a quick stride towards his office door. "I can pull up the paperwork if you wanna see..." He smiled warmly. "Ah, Chloe, you have no idea what this means to Timmy...seriously, offering this sort of peace of mind to...to a troubled soul like his...come here..."

He brought her in for a hug. She looked over his shoulder, confused, at his closed office door...

Five minutes later she sat beside Timmy.

Timmy, who smiled warmly at a woman giving him a company-wide, mandatory flu-shot.

Thus would start the great downfall of Dunbar and Patel, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

"Pleasant weather," said Timmy, sleeve rolled up.

"Yes, it's a nice day," spoke the woman. He seemed normal enough, contrary to Russell's earlier insistance. She held a knot in her stomach.

But he had been so convincing. Like a salesman serving a fast pitch, too fast to give anyone time to think. And she had seen the paperwork...with two signatures...

"No matter how many I receive," said Timmy, "I still get a touch queasy over these thing." He motioned towards the needle making its way into his arm.

She sputtered slightly upon withdrawal. "You've...had one, before?"

"Well...yes, certainly." Timmy offered up a confused smile in retort.

"I haven't," she spoke flatly, releasing Timmy's arm.

"Oh. Tad unusual, given your line of work."

Yes, of course. Vet techs get tracking chips implanted in themselves all the time. What? Chloe watched as Timmy stood, then, thinking better than to let him leave so quickly...

"Uh, Timmy, was it?"

"Oh...yes."

"You're Russell Dunbar's assistant? That must be...interesting."

"Ehhh." Then came the words that broke the whole illusion: "You ought to make sure he gets his shot, as well."

"His...shot?"

"He always weasels his way out of these things, then I'm forced to take the reigns while he sits at home for weeks with the flu." He made his way to the door, and with a friendly wave he was gone.

And a woman sat stunned, silenced, wallowing in anger and a sudden sense of shame. So when at last the door opened again, and she saw his face...

"Thanks for doing that," said Russell. "I know he appreciates it."

She stood now, rushing him, sure of her position. "I don't think we should see each other anymore. In fact, I think I should call the cops."

Russell's face drew blank. He looked around, ensuring they were alone; he met the woman in a silent stare-down, nervous and cold. "You won't do it."

She could read him now, almost. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

He tried to pull the nerves from his face, to appear calculated and threatening. "You're the one who put it in him."

She bit a lip, considering her options. She'd been coerced, misled. She would simply tell the police exactly what had happened.

"You're going down with me," said Russell.

"Why?"

Russell tilted his head in confusion. "Uh...because...you put the chip in his..."

"Why the hell are you doing this? Do you stalk all of your employees, is this a hobby of yours?"

Russell chuckled a bit, appearing just a touch demented. "Chloe...you call it stalking, I call it responsible middle management."

"What...the _hell_ are you talking about?! Have you done this to other people? I saw his signature, how did you get him to sign his privacy away like that?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets. Now, do you really want to try and explain all this to the cops? Do you know how insane you sound right now? Who's gonna believe you, really?"

She stood conflicted before a man full of pride and arrogance, and she knew she was running out of leverage; she had put the chip in his arm. She had fallen into his trap, and she felt like the biggest idiot in the world. How could she possibly...

"Sir...?"

The pair turned towards Timmy, who stood in the doorway with an ever-sweet smile. And Russell's demeanor turned all at once, soft and inviting, without a touch of the malice moments prior.

"Yeah, Tim...?" Everything's cool here, everything's fine.

She took note of the shift at once, thinking him a madman.

"The new exhibit we were discussing yesterday..."

"Nng, that stupid thing..."

"No objections this time. A bit of culture has yet to kill you and the tickets came from corporate, we backed renovations last month, we were invited. Bit of mingling, bit of who's who, so we're punctual, yes?"

"Whatever."

"I hear there's an open bar." Timmy smirked as Russell perked; ahh, something for them both? Art and alcohol? They knew how to even the playing field. "Just pace yourself."

"Uhm...yes on the bar, no on the pacing."

"We'll see, sir. And wear the shirt with the..."

"Oh, the one you always...?"

"Yes, but add a tie tonight."

"Nix the tie."

Timmy turned with a sigh to walk away. "Then button up at least, nobody wants to see all of that."

Russell watched Timmy walk away...for just a few seconds before closing the door behind him, settling in with an eye roll and a soft, "Nag, nag, nag..." He shook his head with a tinge of a smile and the smallest of sighs.

It was then that he recalled the other presence in the room. Chloe, the veterinary technician. The woman who stood solemnly, staring at him with wide, uncompromising eyes. As if something had just snapped inside her head; as if she suddenly understood everything.

"That's it..." she said.

Russell's gaze shifted, anxiety rising in his chest.

She nodded. "I came here today thinking I was doing a favor for a guy I'm seeing. Turns out he's already in a committed relationship."

Russell looked to her now, forcing shock; unwavering. "What...are you talking about?"

"You're into him."

No crazed denials, though his brain ordered his mouth to react...just blank staring and a racing heart. It was all falling apart. He was being forced to feel things.

"This is a whole new level, this whole thing is just plain sick. I'm getting some real psycho killer vibes here, you're a real piece of work, you know that? I don't know exactly what the deal is between you two, but there's something going on, and whatever it is, there is zero justification for...for _stalking_ him, I mean...!"

He seemed shaken, unable to even speak, to defend himself. She was getting to him. He had appeared so cunning a minute ago, she had even been afraid, and now...?

She felt as though perhaps she should ease up. Just a little. Something was seriously wrong with him.

"Russell, that seemed like a genuine human interaction, what you just had with that guy. There has to be some part of you that understands what you're doing is wrong, don't you...don't you understand that?"

Weakly he spoke: "You put...the chip in his arm, I didn't do that."

She sighed out in disbelief; and she moved abruptly towards the door. "I'm telling him what you did." Russell rushed in front of her, blocking her only means of escape.

"You can't do that."

She studied his face now, his eyes diverted, unable to look at her directly. A face full of fear and trepidation for secrets unrevealed. "So, he really doesn't know." She wasn't talking about the tracking chip, and Russell knew it. They both knew it. "Well, I'm telling him."

"I'd rather you called the cops." There was a depth to the declaration. He'd rather face legal consequences than emotional ones. At last he dared to look the woman in the eyes, proving his humanity.

His eyes had done it. So, he wasn't a monster. She groaned, defeated. "Little relationship advice?" she offered. "I'd have suggested talking to the guy before chipping him."

Russell rose a brow, confused.

"Just my two cents." She backed away, putting up hands in resignation. And Russell grew just a touch too relaxed, easing down in a sigh. "Not so fast..."

His breath held steady.

"I can't let you off the hook that easy." She tapped a foot in thought, nerves afire, but she couldn't let it show. She was in this thing now, and she was in it deep, but she had the upper hand. What to do...?

Finally she looked to Russell, standing tall, arms folding across her chest in a decidedly authoritarian manner. "I'll make you a deal."

By the time Russell's door opened some time later, Timmy was secured back at his desk, toiling about with work. He smiled up at an unnamed nurse in greeting; and she paused, granting him a most curious expression. A small smirk, and a shake of her head. Almost as if she knew something; well, whatever it was, she wasn't telling. And as the woman vanished from sight Timmy pondered on this encounter, for just a moment and no longer, returning to his computer screen as if everything was normal.

Russell was at his side a moment later, speaking to him in very hushed tones. "Hey, uh, put this in the expense report."

"What's this?" Timmy took hold of a note. He recoiled slightly. "My word, sir, what on earth could ever run this much money?"

"Just, uh...put it...put it in." And he turned a quick heel, unable to bear his gaze a moment longer.

"Did you get your shot?" Timmy inquired.

"Sure, whatever," muttered Russell, disappearing behind an office door.

Timmy sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. "Talked his way out of it, again."

And Russell, locked away, stared at a tiny dot upon a screen; the most expensive dot he'd ever purchased. The dot sitting just outside his office door. He ran his finger slow against the screen, knowing he was there, feeling a sudden warmth; security. Comfort.

He would always know exactly where he was.

He would never lose him.

He was his. Forever.


	16. P is for Penny

**P is for Penny**

Adam greeted Timmy with a traditionally pleasant smile, allowing a manila folder to smack carelessly atop his desk.

"What is it?"

"I dunno, ask Russell, he had me go copy a couple dozen of those bad-boys, you were out getting him a donut or something, I said no biggie."

"He's convinced you to do my job, has he?"

"Said he'd have you get me a donut, but you don't have to...well, unless you want to." Adam found Timmy's glare self-evident. "I've got feet, man."

Timmy had taken to looking inside the envelope, grumbling. "I've told him a million times, he can't organize inner-office dance parties."

Enter Russell. "Are those my fliers for Bounce-a-Palooza? Ah, excellent!"

"We're not doing that!"

Adam grabbed a flier from the folder, actually taking time to read one, now. "Russell, uh...this thing says only the women in the office are invited."

"Well, yeah, duh. Bounce-a-Palooza is a strictly female event, something nice for the ladies, for once. Get together, dance all night, down with the patriarchy, am I right, gentlemen?"

"So what do you get out of this?"

"Well naturally, as the event's coordinator I would have to be ever-present in the shadows to oversee everything...break-up any cat fights that get a little too touchy-feely, that sort of thing."

Timmy shook his head. "Remarkable, isn't he? So giving of himself."

"I do my best."

Adam shrugged, turning to walk away. "Always thinking of others. Oh..." Something had caught his eye. As he knelt to the floor, Russell and Timmy gave each other curious looks past his back. Adam popped back up, displaying an object between his fingers: "Found a penny."

"Great," said Russell, uninterested. "You're rich."

"Landed head's up," Adam continued. "That's good luck."

"Yep, you're a penny richer, lucky man."

"Come on guys, penny for your thoughts?" Adam offered up a smile, rubbing the copper between two fingers.

"I think you're an idiot," said Russell, turning back towards his office.

Timmy, sensing Adam's irritation, joined in most eagerly. "Oh, uhm...every time it rains, it rains..."

Came Adam: "Oh, Pennies from heaven!"

Russell turned back with a roll of his eyes. "Does any of this lead to women bouncing? Whatever, you know what, I'll find a way. You guys give me something stupid, I turn a profit." He entered the office, tiring of pennies and morons. A moment later he called out: "Hey, Jen's invited to the party!"

"No, she isn't!" called back Timmy. "Nobody is!"

* * *

"Oh! Look at that. Head's up, they say that's lucky." Russell rose a brow. "Could be...lucky for us."

"Ugh, get lost, creep."

Timmy, who had been leaning against a hand watching Russell strike out this evening, finally decided to say something about it. He made his way towards him now, taking the stool beside his at the bar, sighing disappointedly. "You know, sir...I hate to say I told you so..."

"You love to say it. You get off on it, don't lie, you're a terrible liar."

Timmy shrugged, unable to formulate a compelling argument. "It hasn't worked, once. It's time to give up the new pick-up line of choice, and head for home."

"It's a winner, I'm tellin' ya, somebody in this place is gonna bite!"

"Sir...here, just...try it out on me."

"What?" Russell sneered, observing his surroundings. "Tim, we've, uh...been over this. You've gotta stop hitting on me like this, it's getting weird."

Timmy rubbed his temple, groaning just a touch. "Show me what you're doing. If you insist on wasting your time, perhaps I might assist in-"

"You, assist me...? Give _me_ advice?! HA!"

"Humor me," spoke Timmy, entirely unamused. He wanted to leave, and he knew he wasn't getting out of here until Russell either scored or got bored.

God, his life sucked.

"Okay, uh...since you're so into learning my tricks of the trade..." Russell stood, clearing his throat. He walked past Timmy, casually dropping an item to the ground. "Oops, oh! What, I'm such a klutz..."

Timmy groaned, rolling eyes.

"Oh...it's a penny..." He slank in beside Timmy, as if they were meeting for the first time. "Hey, I'm Russell, ah...?"

"Timmy." Flat. Utterly uninterested.

"Beautiful. Oh! Check this out, hey. This penny landed head's up, you know what they say about that, right?"

Timmy stared. Blank faced.

"They say that's good luck. Maybe it was good luck that brought us together, tonight." He slid the penny across the counter, resting it just in front of Timmy. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Timmy shook his head.

Russell grumbled in irritation, snatching back his coin. "Come on, man, that's good stuff!"

"Dreadful, absolutely dreadful. You're never going to..." Timmy fell distracted.

Russell followed his line of vision. Shapely brunette, five-foot-something. "Wasting your time, see her in her every week, I gave up ages ago."

"So you haven't tried, tonight?"

"I just said, man, she's a lost cause, she's...and he's gone. Wild goose chase. Idiot."

Russell cemented himself to the counter; he ordered himself a drink, surrendering to the strike-out. He was clearly too good for the women in this joint. Pft.

A scotch and a half later, Timmy walked past with a shapely, five-foot-something brunette.

Russell grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "What the heck, man?! How'd you melt the ice queen?"

"Oh...yes, well, turns out it wasn't so difficult after all." He held back a smile. "I simply offered her a penny for her thoughts." Timmy dashed away, out of Russell's angered grasp, and into the arms of an eager lover.

Russell ordered another drink, and made it a double.

* * *

There were doors slammed. There were voices raised. It wasn't the first evening like this.

They'd been married for several weeks, already; several of the longest weeks either of them had ever known. In good ways, in bad ways, in all together weird ways.

And here they were again, slamming doors.

Timmy was halfway through the living room, coat on and headed for the front door by the time Russell made his way out from the bedroom.

"You can't just leave!"

Timmy turned around sharply, his laugh one of incredulity, of indignant spite. "Well, it would appear you're quite incorrect in your assumption, as I'm about to prove you wrong. Oh, look, there's the door, and here are my feet moving towards it. Remarkable."

"Look, hey..." Russell watched him walk; touch the door. He dashed madly, grabbing him. "You come here every damn day, you practically live here..."

"I don't live here."

"Yeah, my husband would rather keep living in a run-down crap shack and drop by for conjugal visits than suck it up and share drawer space, I get it." Russell grumbled below his breath; "Skipped the conjugal tonight, went straight for the jugular."

Timmy hummed low, thinking. Despite the regular nature of these arguments, they were decidedly short-lived. The argument tonight had been arbitrary...they generally were. But he was stubborn. "I'm sorry, Russell, I just...can't handle this right now."

A moment later he was gone. Russell took to walking slowly from the door, attempting not to pout pathetically. He sank to his sofa, wishing things were different, when suddenly...the door opened again.

And there he was. Timmy took several steps back inside, biting a finger thoughtfully.

Russell sat up straight, as if he hadn't been down-trodden in the slightest.

"I've forgotten something," said Timmy. He wove Russell towards him. When he was close enough for comfort, Timmy reached inside a pocket; he allowed an object to fall to the floor.

"Oh," he said. "Dreadfully clumsy." He reached down, picking up a small something, holding it up just well enough for Russell to see. "Ah. It's a penny."

Russell smirked. "No kidding?"

"Huh..." Timmy observed the coin. "Seems it's landed head's up. They say that's good luck, you know."

Russell placed both hands to Timmy's waist, yanking him close. The slight gasp from Timmy was a pleasant surprise; the low moan from Russell, his response in kind.

As Russell's mouth drew near to his, heat upon his lips, Timmy spoke breathlessly: "Penny for your thoughts..."

Russell wasted no time in making his thoughts abundantly clear; the penny was lucky.

He aimed to prove it.


	17. Q is for Quack

**Q is for Quack**

Another pleasant day strolling through the park, marred solely by the company one kept. Well, that really wasn't fair. If one were to ask either of them if they enjoyed the other's company, the answer would have been a resounding no, but this was obviously a fallacious sentiment.

After all, they were here together. Again. Off the clock, on their free time, meandering quietly on a pleasant spring day.

"Hey, say cheese!"

Russell and Timmy turned heads in confusion, making terrible faces for paparazzi. Adam groused. "Man, that's the face everyone makes."

Jen sighed. "Because you always just run up yelling 'say cheese,' they don't know you're coming." For a moment she consulted with the men as her husband fiddled with a new toy. "He just got this camera, humor him and pose for a photo, okay?"

The next one turned out better. As Jen and Adam walked the opposite direction down the path, Adam scrolling back through photos, he chuckled to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"He gave him bunny ears."

Jen groaned out. "Ugh, that's so like Russell to wreck a photo."

"No. No, Timmy gave the bunny ears to Russell, see...?"

Jen looked on the photo; she stopped walking, glancing back on Russell and Timmy in reflection as they disappeared along the path. Huh, yeah. Yeah, so he had.

Along the other end of the path, two men walked silently side by side. The small pond to their left was enough to stop Timmy, though Russell urged him forward.

"Stupid water, what's so fascinating?"

"Ducklings, sir!" Timmy knelt beside the water. "You haven't an ounce of heart left in you that you'd besmirch the sweetness of a baby duck?"

"Maybe with orange sauce," muttered Russell.

"What's that, sir?"

"Cute, Tim, real cute!" Not enough. Timmy was still urging him forward, and Russell begrudgingly found himself inching closer. Hesitantly, he willed himself to move until he was very near the other man, kneeling down a touch.

"There, sir..." whispered Timmy. He pointed towards a ring of ducklings, circling behind their mother, splashing gleefully. "The circle of life. Breathtaking, isn't it?"

"Moves us all. I'm moved, Tim. Are we done, here?"

Too late. He was a goner, and it was all Timmy's fault; they'd caught the attention of the tiny white feathered beasts. Russell's heart lurched as he saw the ducks turn towards him. At least six tiny winged predators, eyes set upon him, swimming towards shore.

"Ah, damn it..." Russell stood, backing away, which only seemed to anger the little terrors, as they swam faster now, abandoning a mother duck who quacked for their return. "Listen to your mother!"

Timmy watched small orange feet meet land, following sneakered feet which dashed scurryingly away at an ever alarming rate. "Sir...?"

"Save yourself, Tim, it's me they're after!"

Timmy stood, keeping pace with Russell. True to word, the ducklings were after him. And right behind the ducklings, a mother duck, seeming quick displeased with the entire ordeal.

"Ducks hate me, Timmy...!"

Timmy, holding back a smirk, examined Russell with a tilt of his head. "On the contrary, sir, it would appear they've taken you for a second mother. Makes perfect sense. Small enough, cheepish warble of a considerable pitch, rather avian stride..." He ran fingers against Russell's head. "Hair made of feathers..."

"Knock it off!" Russell made the bold mistake of standing still, at which point panic set in. He looked all about, hyperventilating as a ring of tiny, squeaking ducklings circled his feet, pecking at his toes and ankles. "No no no, not again!"

At which point Timmy, ever resilient, pulled from his pocket a bag of bread. He whistled, making a line of crumbs from boss to water, leading quacking terrors away, mother and children, until at last the man had been set free.

And Russell, collapsing to the center of the path, took to centering his breathing.

He found Timmy next to him a moment later, kind enough to commit himself to ground. There he sat, cross-legged, practically grinning his direction.

"You had a magical bag of bread?"

"I often feed birds in the park, sir. Just not...pft..." Timmy tried his best to stifle laughter. "I never expected I'd have to..." He was truly resisting.

"Ducks hate me." Russell rolled up a sleeve, showing a tiny mark against an arm. "Battle scar. Summer camp, 10 years old. It was me or her, Tim."

"Well?" asked Timmy through held laughter.

Russell's eyes narrowed.

"Who won?" At this he lost all control, releasing high pitched giggles and snorts. He pulled knees to chest in an effort to contain himself, shaking his head in apology, but no use...he carried on gleefully laughing. "A duck, of all things!"

Russell took the laughter for rejection, a small pit of disappointment ever growing in his stomach. The guy was just like all the others.

Rather foolish notion; for if he'd really taken time to think, he'd know that Timmy, in all his refinement, was well above making mockery of other people. He only allowed himself such displays under special circumstances, with those closest to him. With those he held in deep contempt; with those he loved and feared no chance of losing. Some, it seemed, walked an ever thinning line.

Timmy's laughter was dying down now. He made every effort to act as though he'd simply tired of the act, sitting tall and breathing deeply. In realty, he'd taken note of Russell's discomfort, and something had troubled him in the man's face...he'd struck a nerve, and today the nerve-striking didn't seem nearly as satisfying as he was accustomed to.

It was losing its edge.

"You know, sir, I..." Timmy searched for words to reconcile the situation. "I once, uhm...was kicked in the leg by a horse."

Russell turned slightly, confused by the sudden onslaught of words from Timmy's mouth. "The hell?"

"A horse, sir. A girlfriend at the time, she...had weaseled me into a game of polo, and the horse...well, I still have a bit of a mark. I'd show you, but it's rather on the upper thigh and as we're in a public park..."

"And I'm not interested in your thighs, little factoid."

"Yes, of course, let's certainly not begin stripping for one another."

They both scoffed at the suggestion, then forced soft laughter, diverting eye contact.

"So...so anyway," continued Timmy. "I wouldn't go near a horse for the longest time, I still quake a bit in one's presence..." Timmy looked to Russell, slowly.

Russell side-eyed his companion in understanding. So, this was an apology? Fair enough.

"Yeah, well, horses are jerks."

"Yes, and so are ducks. Always...eating bread, and quacking, am I right?"

A crooked smile fell upon Russell's face. He stood without another word...checked the peripheral for anymore feathered beasts, and took to walking.

Oh, wait. He paused, turning back, and reached a hand down towards Timmy. Hands latched just so, without a second thought...a hoist upward, and he was walking right beside him.

And so a year would pass; two years, three. They would walk here many times.

Timmy always quacked lightly when they walked the path. With a small whinny, Russell always kicked him in response. Lightly, lovingly, against a shin...just enough to prove a point.

The mark upon Timmy's thigh had became familiar to fingers in the middle of the night, and Russell teased him for it.

Never enough to send him away, of course.

Russell might still need him if the ducks showed up.


	18. R is for Red

**R is for Red**

Her dress was red. He had spotted her across the room, laughing with a group of friends, all blissfully young and unaware. It was the one in red, though, who had caught his attention; tanned and taught and full of vigor, and glaringly lacking in male companionship. He approached the pack as if a lion on the prowl, and she a wandering wildebeest.

All laughter fell at his approach, replaced with curious scowls and scoffs.

"Hey, baby, what's shakin'?"

The laughter returned, and Red Dress shook her head. "Beat it, gramps."

The lion's paws, now full of thorns, retreated slow and steady into shadows of a jungle meant for younger cubs.

He found a drink on tap, nursing wounds while watching crowds of smiles most surely painted on. No one could ever be so happy...it was a mating ritual, peacock feathers, a colorful facade. He watched couples pressed a bit too tight take to dancing, and swallowed hard, wishing liquor warmed more than throats.

Unreasonable thoughts shoved down with unsatisfying bowls of stale snacks atop a bar. He eyed the young cub beside him; a business type, dressed neat in suit and tie, appearing lonely. Kinship, perhaps.

"She stood ya up, huh?"

He offered up a friendly smile. "Just waiting for my boyfriend."

The lion frowned down at disappointing peanuts. Soon, he veered his eyes towards the cub, a tall and handsome figure arriving to whisk him away.

Who was there to whisk him? Who was he supposed to whisk?

* * *

He sat by dim light, feeding thread through needle. Delicate and soft, he watched the strand pass through, a meditative sort of feat, and smiled as he turned head to watch the gentle dance of candle flame. Nights like this were few and far between, these days. He'd learned to sew from his grandmother, spending many an evening by her side, watching needle flow sleek through cloth. As he finished threading now, he reminisced on these days, thankful for a lack of prying eyes; for a lack of mockery.

The knock upon his door, then, was an unpleasant jolt from this solitude. The figure standing in his hallway shortly thereafter, casually waving as if he were a welcome guest, even more unsettling.

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't even get a hello?"

"Hello. What are you doing here?"

The lion didn't answer; he simply slipped inside, a sleek display of ownership.

In a fleeting moment, he sized up his prey; something of a wide-eyed, svelte gazelle, naive and ready for the kill. He carried on, confidence in his stride, prepared to strike at any moment.

Prey spoke. "It's been a pleasure, sir, but I really must be getting-"

Predator turned abruptly, holding an authoritarian tone that so made his paid companion's skin crawl. "Y'know, I've been thinking."

"Oh, no..."

"You don't get out enough. Maybe you need to get out more? Studies show that relaxation improves work productivity by up to-" A hand arose, curtailing further speech.

Prey held breath...for just a moment, then paced several careful steps towards his intruder. "I was relaxing quite well before you showed up."

"Really?" Lion's head turned to either side, face reflecting more confusion with each inch of boring, lamentably low-budget apartment. "How?"

"I was having a quiet night at home, believe it or not."

"Snoresville."

Then, an unexpected twist; prey left. A bold and brash animal, the gazelle walked past the lion with a certain grace and flair, directing: "Good evening. You know your way out." There he took exit to his previous, more pleasant quarters.

Oh. Well. Stunned in place...then lost, directionless...several minutes came of lonely pacing and eyes that drank in their surroundings. This was the home of a strange and humble creature. One who kept happy smiling family portraits and high school soccer trophies...religious looking statues and complicated looking literature...on simple shelves, in a humble, human living room.

Russell didn't fit here. His stomach churned in regret and shame and envy, though he scarcely recognized the bulk of it...bad. He just felt bad.

His pacing led him to the open entrance of a bedroom where Timmy sat by dim light sewing; real and soft and quite human, and Russell, as an animal, lost for words and much too tarnished for this scene, turned swift, prepared to walk away.

"You're still here?"

He halted; he turned back. "You spend all your free time like this?"

Timmy glanced up from his needlework, but briefly. "When I'm allowed free time. I've a rather overbearing boss, I'm sure you understand."

"Heh. Whatcha makin'?"

Timmy's hands held still; he would not be granted further solitude this evening, and so he looked to Russell Dunbar with a sigh of resignation, holding up his sewing. "Something for my sister."

"Oh, the one-"

"The one you tried to sleep with, yes."

Russell's mouth popped tight; it had been a decidedly sharp response in both words and tone. He'd only tried to sleep with her _a little_.

Still, his legs propelled him closer. Timmy sat upon a small chair near a smaller light; Russell took a bed's edge, opening his mouth to speak.

Timmy beat him to the punch. "Yes, I know. Sewing is for women, I'm a woman, hilarious joke as always, sir, where would I have been tonight without your levity?"

Russell's voice held back a moment; then, meekly: "That's...not what I was gonna say at all."

Timmy turned down face, but nodded with a sigh, certain of an alternate jest. "Carry on, then."

"I was gonna say how, uh...my nanny Helga would crochet these long scarves and then wrap me up in…" Russell paused, off-put by the abrupt turn on Timmy's face; a softening, a genuine and growing intrigue. "Never...nevermind."

"Do you know how? To crochet, I mean, did she teach you?" An educated guess. Russell shrugged a shoulder; reluctant admission was enough. "You'd benefit from a hobby, sir. Working with your hands can be highly rewarding. Seeing the fruits of your labor."

"When you say 'work with your hands,'..."

Timmy stood. He moved his chair towards the bed, very near across from Russell, and shook his handiwork a touch. "A form of relaxation, of meditation, I dare say, sir, there's more to your life than just nightclubs and women."

"Tried that. Tried the hobby thing. Tried dropping women. The coitus hiatus...the intercourse intermission…"

" _Yes._ Yes, I know. Everything looked like a woman. Buildings, potted plants, _men_. You said _I_ looked like a woman..."

"That was unrelated, and you do."

Timmy nodded in satisfaction, as though he's just proven a point, but carried on unprovoked. He had thrust a needle, thread, and scrap of cloth Russell's way no later, leaving him to stare at these offerings in confusion.

"How about it?"

"Nah, I…"

"I'm certain there's magic in those hands."

Russell side-eyed Timmy with a curious brow, snatching the cloth and needle with a defiant tug. "I'll show you magic hands…"

"Hm." Timmy resisted further commentary, content on watching Russell figure out the task before him. He knew he could do it. Timmy had witnessed marvelous meals, masterpieces formed through brush and chisel, fine music fit for concert halls...the work of a true Renaissance Man. This man could do great things...the only prerequisite being he not succumb to lust.

Well, there were no women here, no distractions. Russell had managed to thread the needle, rejoicing in his victory with a meek smile. If he could simply focus on this simple thread weaving through cloth, his eyes following its path, he would find his way. A sort of meditation, yes. In and out...in...and out...in...out…..

Russell glanced up, puzzled to find an audience so concentrated on his work. Studiously, with furrowed brow and held breath, Timmy had watched each pull of thread as though a great experiment were underway, and Russell couldn't help but hide a laugh as he carried on.

This kid was strange. It was just a thread, it was just a needle. They were only sitting in this room right now, isolated, illuminated by a simple light, far from city noise and office buildings. Timmy had only pulled forward, magnet to metal, intrigued, watching him with childlike intensity as if he were the most interesting person in the entire world. As though...he may really be worth caring abou-

" _Hss_ …" Russell leered upon a pricked finger, head tilting, eyes widening. He rose his hand, mesmerized, a slow bit of bright red easing down a finger.

"Merely a prick, sir, you'll make it. Don't just stare at it, though...put pressure on it, for heaven's sake."

"What...?"

"Put...put pressure on...my word, how are you still alive?" Timmy sacrificed Russell's cloth; he'd wrapped it firm about his finger a moment later, holding it in place.

 _How are you still alive?_ Russell jolted back to life, the question echoing against his brain.

 _You know your way out._ Timmy sat holding Russell's hand, a makeshift medic, separated only by a thin scrap of simple white fabric.

The men's eyes locked quickly; quickly, eyes turned down again towards a patch of white cloth, staining red between hands that froze in contemplation. Hesitation.

Timmy's hand was warm, and soft, and real. He radiated sincerity through long, delicate fingers which brushed so carefully with Russell's.

Russell's hand quivered impulsively, seeking further warmth.

 _Please stay here._

Denied, for just as quick as he'd arrived, he left again. "I believe," said Timmy, "it's stopped bleeding...you'll, uhm…your fingers will remember."

Russell was looking to Timmy silently, holding himself uneasily, decidedly dumbstruck.

"How to sew," completed Timmy. "Or crochet, if you were...to take it back up."

Russell's fingers ached to create further memories.

And Timmy, locked upon a spellbound face, fell quite perplexed, still lost for the fact that he might be the spell.

"Sir?"

Russell blinked his eyes away from Timmy's face, examining his finger. "Live to tell another tale, huh?"

"Can't spill all the magic, I suppose."

Silent questions.

"I, uh...I should get going. S...see ya tomorrow."

Timmy watched him go, an uneventful journey, same as he'd arrived; he might as well have owned the place. He listened for the door to close, expecting some relief at this departure.

Instead, he held a scrap of fabric, inspecting surprisingly neat stitches near a small pool of red, and wondered why his world stopped turning for the likes of such an animal as Russell Dunbar.

"His blood is surely toxic."


	19. S is for Santa

**S is for Santa**

 _CHRISTMAS PAST..._

"Damn it."

"Who'd you pull?" queried Adam.

In silence, Timmy read the name upon the slip of paper. He read the name several times more, then aimed to stick it back inside the glittery green and red box upon the break room table.

"Nuh-uh!" scolded Adam. "No tradesies. Secret Santa is a sacred tradition, you get who you get. Who'd you get? Ah, well, I guess it wouldn't be a secret then...wait, did you get me? It's me, isn't it? Ah!" A crooked grin and a wag of his finger stood as scolding as Adam walked away. "Almost told me."

Timmy stood defeated, glancing back towards the likeliest of names. Likely, of course, because it was bound to happen sooner or later.

 _Russell Dunbar_. And why not. He always bought Russell a Christmas gift. And a birthday gift...and on Boss's Day. Valentine's Day, once. Of course, he'd never bought any of them _personally_.

Russell bought them for himself, deducting Timmy's pay.

It's the thought that counts.

However, this was different...Timmy was now forced to buy a personal gift for his tormentor, a nice little present wrapped in a jolly little bow...what did he even want? Sex, he supposed, the only thing the man ever truly desired, and he was not about to give him _that_.

What else did he like…? He'd been known to wear clothing. And eat...food. Ugh, what an incredibly dull human being.

Then it struck him. The perfect gift for someone undeserving of a gift, the classic "screw you" from the man in red himself. But then...Timmy was better than that, surely. Even in revenge, such treatment was beneath him, and in being honest with himself, he knew his boss well enough that he could come up with so many more viable options.

He could never be so mean. He could never…

"Hey, Timmy?"

Timmy turned to face Russell, who held festive costumes from either hand.

"Last year you did the elf thing, this year for the Christmas party I'm thinking we put you in this Frosty get up, doesn't do much for the figure and I know, _I know_ , a brown snowman? But listen, I think if anybody can pull it off…"

Timmy walked swiftly past Russell, curtailing the conversation. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

Ah, the Christmas party. The most magical time of the year. People had joked all evening about spiking the flat and tasteless punch, but one person had finally done it (to be fair, they were a little drunk already). Everyone loved the Dunbar Christmas parties.

Everyone.

It was Adam who first suggested they open Secret Santa gifts, in classic Adam style. He'd put on the Santa hat, "ho ho ho"-d a bit, gone entirely overboard with the entire scenario.

At this time, Russell had settled on sucking several candy canes into shivs in the hopes of killing everyone in the room. He hid his latest weapon in his jacket pocket, gulped down spiked punch, and sighed defeatedly as Adam whisked him towards living people.

In proper Santa's helper fashion, Adam delivered presents to all the good little children, arriving with a spin for flourish at Timmy's side.

Timmy was not dressed as a snowman. "Oh, thank you." He sent Adam on his way with a cheerful smile, gazing down upon neatly wrapped silver and gold. A swirl of a ribbon and careful detailing of his name on the gift tag completed the picture of a perfect Christmas gift. "Well, somebody certainly made an effort."

He looked about. Everyone opening gifts: coffee mugs and tacky scarves. Candies and novelty singing whatsits. Typical holiday at the office. He looked down at his gift, nearly hating to spoil such lovely presentation.

Nearly. He tore at paper, finding a box; inside the box…

He stared. His heart raced, just a bit. He looked all around the office, seeking answers.

This was a _real_ gift. A thoughtful, personal gift of sentimental value. Not some knick-knack to be thrown out or regifted next year. This came from somebody who knew him on a deeply personal level. Nobody in this office. Nobody-

Oh. Oh, no. It couldn't be. It was impossible.

With eyes of horror Timmy looked to Russell. In agonizingly slow motion he was opening his gift; Timmy's mouth opened equally slow, a pitifully weak "noooo-" aching to escape his lips, but no! Hold back, he mustn't reveal the truth, for it was too late now. A crowd was forming, tipped off by whisperings earlier this evening of, "you won't want to miss this," and now it was too late, now-

"The hell is this?"

He'd opened it. Russell Dunbar, grinch of the century, standing in the center of a snickering party with his box of coal.

Timmy Patel's heart shrank three sizes that day.

Russell looked around the room slowly, anxiety crawling up his throat. "Uh...heh. Check it out, got an office clown." Then, in an ultimate save face, holding a piece of coal, he coughed once and assured: "These are actually imported chocolates from Italy, _very_ highbrow."

To sell the illusion, he bit down, then, turning to hide face, set in the direction of his office. "Timmy, a word!"

As bodies dissipated with murmurs and laughter, Timmy coiling unsteadily towards Russell's office, congratulatory slaps upon the back and assurances of "good one, man" felt heavily displaced.

As soon as Timmy closed the door, Russell shook the box. "These aren't chocolates."

"No, sir…" Timmy's head hung in shame.

"You think this is funny?"

"Well, I…"

"Everyone else thinks it's hilarious. But _they_ all hate me. You're the only one I can trust, Timmy. You have any leads?"

Timmy's head jolted to attention. "Leads?"

"Who would give me a box of coal, I mean who hates me that much?"

Dumbfounded, Timmy queried: "You're serious…?"

"I mean, I know Secret Santa is supposed to be a closely guarded secret, it's in the name and everything, but as my best friend-"

Oh no.

"-I know you'd do everything in your power to help take down a thief of Christmas joy."

Timmy's hands ran down his face, holding back a groan of despair. He inhaled sharply, brain speaking for him in quick retort: "Yes. Yes, sir, of course, and you wouldn't happen to know, I suppose, who pulled my name this year?"

He had to be sure his guilt was well placed.

Russell's demeanor shifted; he spoke quite softly. "I believe we were discussing coal bandits."

Ah, yes. Quite. Timmy nodded. "I'll find the perpetrator." He made it to the door before pausing; soul heavy, he turned back to find Russell staring at a box of ashen misery.

"Sir?"

Russell glanced up with weary eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir, that anyone could be so cruel."

Russell turned away. He laid the box atop his desk, running fingers along the edges...without looking back, he replied in kind, "I'm sorry, too."

Timmy nearly spoke too soon, words hanging on his lips; but no. They'd said enough. "Merry Christmas, sir."

Russell listened for the sound of the door. "Merry Christmas, Tim."

* * *

 _CHRISTMAS FUTURE..._

Christmas morning, and a fresh fall of snow found Timmy wake to an empty bed. He traced careful steps out to the living room, finding his partner rustling amongst packages beneath the tree, shaking each in search of secrets. He appeared every bit a small boy having just woken to discover Santa's great arrival, and Timmy grinned in pleasure.

Russell was making up for lost time, and Timmy held no desire to curb his joy. Still, he found the lure of a gentle tease enticing. He snuck up from behind, leaning towards an ear and whispering: "Has Santa been, darling?"

Russell quaked, turning with nervous laughter. He found Timmy's eyes bright, holding nothing to fear.

"Stockings first," said Timmy, urging Russell towards the fireplace. Timmy, appearing overly enthused upon arrival, did well to raise Russell's suspicions.

"What'd you do, booby trap it?"

Timmy groaned in agitation. "Why would I booby trap the stockings?"

Russell, laying out several possibilities in his mind, finally relented. He accepted his fate with open arms, reaching inside a stocking to discover…

He rose a brow Timmy's way.

Timmy stood very still, nerves setting in. "You, uhm...you see, it's…"

"It's coal, Timmy."

"Okay, yes," spoke Timmy very quickly, "but I assure you this time they're all-"

Russell had already grabbed one. He peeled back a black layer, taking a bite. "Chocolate."

"You see because...because the time in the office where...where someone gave you-"

"You gave me coal, yeah." A flippant, passive recollection.

Timmy, wide-eyed, watched Russell stoically unwrap another chocolate. "So...so, you remember then. Russell?" He wasn't speaking. This wasn't good. "Russell, I'm sorry, I thought it would be-"

Then, it happened. Russell looked to him, with the smallest hint of a smile. "Babe, shut up and eat chocolate."

"Yes. Okay." Smiles and sweets exchanged, the world settled.

Through chocolate coal sang rising laughter, two men pieced together by memories repaired, one by one. Life was deliciously stupid.

"Merry Christmas, Russell."

Russell gifted chocolate kisses upon welcoming lips, whose owner left shortly in a pleasured sigh for shimmering lights and more presents beneath a perfect tree.

Nothing underneath that tree would compare to Russell's biggest gift this year.

His greatest present. His future.

"Merry Christmas, Tim."


	20. T is for Touch

**T is for Touch**

He was used to nights like this. Russell Dunbar, pressed just a bit too close as they walked the hall leading to his apartment. He was drunk; Timmy carried the brunt of his weight, arm draped about the man's shoulder now in paid protection, a diminutive bodyguard at best. But then, it was never truly his body he was protecting.

There were emotions at stake.

"That bouncer was a jerk," Russell slurred, sliding key in lock. He face planted his front door before he could open it, leaving Timmy to complete the task. He led his boss inside; upon flicking on lights he was met with a heavy groan of blinded agony. The lights dimmed as Timmy watched drunken stumbling towards the sofa.

"That girl looked eighteen, didn't she?"

"Parts of her," replied Timmy. "Sir, I've work in the morning. I trust you'll slither in by noon, as usual?"

"Y'know, I don't ask for much…"

Timmy hung his head, conceding to the fact he would not be leaving quite so quickly.

"A little companionship. Sure, I've got you, but there's only so much I can pay you to do."

"I do have my limits, sir. Frankly, I've grown a bit uncomfortable at having such a familial relationship with your escort service." As Russell flopped upon the sofa, Timmy offered in kind, "Shall we...be partaking of their services this evening, sir? They are on speed dial."

"They don't mean it when they talk to you. Like this, you and me, two people connecting in a big, lonely city. Romantic."

Timmy paused a moment in reflection. "Uhm. All right…"

"I mean organic connections, n-not ones you have to pay for."

"Are you...not paying me…? You know what, nevermind. Yes, sir, it's been a lovely evening as always. Terribly organic. You sleep this off, I'll see you in the morning." Timmy turned.

"Sometimes I wish somebody would just...touch me. And mean it. Like, really mean it."

There was a sudden clarity in Russell's voice that held Timmy's feet in place, a softened sincerity in the words, and he turned slowly to look upon the man who sat straight in shallow light, staring into space. Quite lost, it seemed.

Yes, Russell spoke quite softly now, lingering on words that floated out with thoughtful hesitation. "You ever been with someone like that, Tim? Who just wanted to know what it was like to...to feel you? Not pull anything, just...just touch you because-"

"Yes, I understand," spoke Timmy. Quickly he added, "It always...leads to something, I suppose. Something fleeting. It's not for lack of trying."

"I try," said Russell, seeking Timmy's figure. He asked in earnest, "Don't I try?"

Timmy took steps nearer, sighing out thoughtfully. How to handle this gently? "Mr. Dunbar...if you seek sincerity in a partner, perhaps you're looking in all the wrong places."

"Where else am I supposed to look?!"

"I don't know, sir…" Timmy sat beside Russell, near yet holding space. "Perhaps somewhere other than strip clubs?"

"I ask out every woman I see everywhere, are you kidding me?!"

"Winning strategy, process of elimination."

Russell groaned long and low.

"Quantity over quality," Timmy quipped.

"Well, at least _I_ get laid," shot Russell.

Timmy stood, prepared to leave; there came a hand upon his arm. As his gaze drifted down towards Russell, his eyes diverting towards legs that shook, Timmy sought answers.

Russell muttered simply, "Stay." His fingers slid then...slowly down the curve of Timmy's arm. And carefully, quite deliberately it would seem, his fingertips rested gingerly at Timmy's wrist.

Here Russell's eyes closed down hard, fingertips on skin setting nerves aflight. Here he fell to great relief as Timmy sat back down beside him, just a touch closer than before.

"There was somebody," said Timmy softly, earning Russell's full attention; two bodies eased down in surrender. "In college. A professor. She was older, quite intelligent. I'd make every excuse to talk to this woman, make physical contact with her and it...it wasn't sexual. At the time. I admired her, she made me feel as if I truly mattered…"

"At the time?"

"What?"

Russell snickered lightly. "At the time, it wasn't sexual. You sex'd up a prof?" Timmy's squirming forced further laughter. "You've got a thing for authority figures, huh?"

"No, it was just…"

" _Older_ authority figures...okay, figuring out Timmy's kinks, this is fun."

"Why do I talk to you?"

Russell's laugh was far from mocking, and Timmy tried to place the sound coming from his boss. A chuckle, an endearing sort of thing, the laugh you might give a child with which you were pleasantly amused, upon a face full of joyful glee. A moment ago, Russell had been so melancholy in his drunken state, and now...

What had changed?

Timmy wished to urge himself away. He had work in the morning. He had a boss to answer to.

But the boss in question was right here, smiling his direction with eyes that glimmered in a peculiar sort of glow this evening, one he found intriguing and magnetizing, beyond his better judgement. Perhaps it was merely the alcohol creating such a glow.

Soon it was that he was smiling back at him, a gentle laugh escaping his lips.

If only either of them had read between the lines. Two men lay trapped at sea, peddling for shore; for tonight, a smile exchanged was enough. Seeds buried back on land. Hearts grew, waiting.

Timmy sank his head further against the back of Russell's sofa. "You'll get there, sir. You just have to be yourself."

Leaning back, flopping his head towards Timmy with a groan, Russell admitted defeat. "That's the worst advice you've ever given me, dude, and...seriously, your advice sucks."

"Not… _that_ self. The other one."

"There's another one?"

"There must be." Timmy didn't elaborate. He knew what he meant. It was a comment laced in personal gratification; surely, if he was still here, there must be more to this man.

He couldn't possibly have such poor judgement.

Such poor taste.

In...people. In f...friends? Timmy was granting Russell such a curious look that the man beside him hummed low and nervous, forcing Timmy's eyes away. There fell silence, long and heavy. Reality was setting in.

Russell had to do something. "So that blonde chick was all over you…"

"Her name was Tawny."

"That was a sure thing, man, why didn't you take it?"

"She was drunk off her rocker."

Russell made an elaborate gesture. "I'm...not...are we on two different planets, here? A drunk girl solicits you for sex and you're sitting here with _me_ , are you insane? Wh...did you wanna have sex with me instead of Tawny?! I mean, my schedule's clearly free, so…"

"Listen, you know how- thank you for the offer."

"Any time."

"You said you wanted somebody to...to truly want you. That woman, while certainly physically attractive, was intoxicated. Drunk senseless, her friend had to come peel her off of me, now tell me she actually wanted to know me in any sort of meaningful way."

Russell whined, holding back words. He wanted desperately to speak, finding no compelling argument that would satisfy Timmy's sounder morals.

"Do you think she would have been sitting here engaged in half the amount of dialogue we are, right now?"

"So...you're saying I was the better choice?"

Timmy squeaked out in hesitation. "Iiii...didn't say that…"

"Ya kinda did."

"Mm. How drunk are you, sir?"

Russell chortled now. "Why, you gonna try and solicit me since you missed out on blondie?"

"No...I…" Timmy rubbed his eyes, suddenly questioning his own advice. Why wasn't he with Tawny? How much had _he_ drank this evening? "It's just that the drunker you are, sir, the quicker you fall asleep…"

"You want me to fall asleep first so you can draw something goofy all over me?" Russell gasped lightly. "Wait, is this a sleepover? You wanna do hair and nails? Yeah, I could see you with a perm!"

Timmy resisted smiles. "The drunker you are, the quicker you fall asleep, the faster I escape your clutches."

Russell examined Timmy's face. Ah, a slight sarcastic smirk...he hadn't lost him yet. Russell's head tilted forward in an easy way, his smile soft and warm. Casually, a hand fell now through his hair, shoving it back in one smooth stroke. Relaxed; his eyes fell back to Timmy now, as if he hardly noticed he was there at all. Quite deliberate, it would seem.

If Timmy hadn't known any better, he might have mistaken Russell's ease for flirting.

But then, of course, he...he knew better.

"Glad you're here instead of there," came Russell's soft declaration, easy and light.

Timmy felt relaxed, somehow, at this offering, echoing in kind: "Yes."

"She made you feel like you mattered?"

Timmy blinked rapidly Russell's way. "What?"

"Your prof chick, she uh...she made you feel-"

"Oh." Timmy squirmed slightly. "Yes, but...foolishness of youth, you know."

"You matter, Timmy."

There came a glance of eyes; a stunned Timmy.

"I mean…you matter to..." Russell crossed an arm uncomfortably, rubbing a shoulder to release a sudden bout of nerves. "Uh...I should say that...more...often. When I'm not...plastered."

Timmy focused eyes on a remarkably soft Russell. An honest Russell, whose words were more sincere than usual, more kind and real and loving. He watched as eyes drifted now quite suddenly towards sleep. "Thank...thank you."

"Mm-hm."

And as he lost him to the liquor, Timmy stood on slow feet, hesitant feet that felt the need to draw still closer rather than away. He took one step...then turned instead towards the figure on the sofa, intrigued.

He watched slow breaths move in and out of lungs that worked so diligently to berate him day to day. Eyes drifted towards lips that mocked and ridiculed. It wasn't the first time he'd watched him sleep for just a moment on nights like these...it wouldn't be the last.

But tonight, fingers acted out on sudden impulse.

Timmy Patel reached down, for just a moment, brushing light against Russell Dunbar's cheek. His body ached, a sort of pull the likes of which he found indescribable, all at once uncomfortable and familiar. Uncomfortable, yes, and yet he found it difficult to pull away now, to reclaim these fingers as his own, in much the way this man had taken control of his life.

Timmy took a shallow breath, retrieving fingers that felt new and confused. He held fingertips like hot coals, cooling in the air between two souls, then turned and kept walking, willing his mind to not think better of it.

Russell heard the door close; he lay upon the sofa, fingers easing slow against his cheek, and fell into sleep.


End file.
